


Into the Mirror

by butterfliesandvixens



Category: Dancing On Ice RPF, Figure Skating RPF
Genre: F/M, Ghosts, Inspired by Somewhere in Time, Romance, Soulmates, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22447210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterfliesandvixens/pseuds/butterfliesandvixens
Summary: In 1977, lonely student Christopher Dean is haunted by the ghost of a heartbroken girl. He then stumbles across a picture of the missing figure skater Jayne Torvill in a Nottinghamshire museum. He looks into her disappearance, and falls into the deep web of time in order to find Jayne.
Relationships: Christopher Dean/Jayne Torvill
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello sisters. Yes, I have posted my thing on AO3. Might take it down, depending on if Jess finds it or not!

The University of Nottingham - 1977

"Soulmates." the professor began, writing the word across the top of the chalkboard and drawing a line underneath it. He turned to face the members of his seminar, that had assembled in Lecture Room T87 on that frosty spring afternoon.  
"I’m sure you’ve all heard of this word. We all have. It’s part of our everyday vocabulary. We see it everywhere. In books, in television, in film, in music. And we use it amongst ourselves quite a lot. It trips off our tongues every once in a while, so casually. Perhaps said with a lot of feeling, without thinking about what this word really means."

Christopher Dean, a nineteen year old student, sat in the third row, with a scarf wrapped around his neck and fingerless gloves on his hands, similar to ever other student around him, as Lecture Room T87 was notoriously chilly in the winter. Hidden in the small crowd, he opened his notebook and sat ready with his pencil. The girl sitting beside him couldn’t stop herself from glancing at him. He was extremely handsome, with his bright golden hair and fashionable brown sideburns, with a pair of piercing hazel eyes, and face similar to an angel's. But he didn’t know this, and preferred to stay unnoticed in that little crowd. At the top of the room, Professor Stenhouse continued. 

""As I stand here, looking out at this small group of promising twenty-something year olds, who I’m sure live a very exciting life outside the walls of this lecture room, I would say that some, if not most of you have used this word before. Maybe you’ve called a boyfriend or girlfriend this, or maybe you’ve just seen the word used in the various media I’ve listed above. And this is where I take issue with the modern usage of the word."  
"It’s been thrown around so carelessly for centuries, we’ve forgotten what it really means. Your soulmate is not, and let me emphasize this, they are NOT just anyone. They are not everyone you ever fall in love with. It’s not as easy, or as fun, as the modern media paint it out to be. You have just one soulmate. And in this world, on this earth inhabited by four and a half billion people, they could be anywhere."

The professor paused for a moment, and Chris leaned forward, intrigued, as was everyone else in the room.

"To find the true meaning of this concept, we need only look at the word itself." he said, watching his students carefully before turning back to the board, and drawing a line down through the middle of the title word. Chris copied him in his own notes.  
"Soul. The soul is defined as the spiritual or immaterial part of a human being, and it is regarded as immortal, which explains the possible existence of ghosts, but we’ll talk about that later. Your soul, quite simply, is you. You are your soul and your soul is you. It consists of every fibre of your being. And mate? Mate means two. And only two. It refers to two living things, living together and sharing that existence."

The professor picked up a new piece of chalk and began to draw. Chris felt like he was in a trance listening to him, and proceeded to copy his drawing.  
"The Ancient Greeks had a crude, but very interesting view on this concept. They believed that humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. The King of their Gods, Zeus, feared the power of humans, and he wanted to weaken them. So he split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves." 

He told this story through his drawing, and Chris looked down at his own version. He nearly laughed at how bad it was, but drew a line straight through the body of the person with two heads, four arms and four legs.

"Now, as I said, this is a very old myth in Greece, but the messages still holds through. We are all created, however you believe we are created, sharing a soul with someone else. And then we are born onto this Earth to find them. And if any of you are starting to think this is ridiculous, or even impossible, I can tell you there is a scientific theory to back it up."  
Other people started to whisper about this, but Chris just sat up and leaned forward.

"Fifteen years ago, the Belgian geneticist Anton Janssen proposed that at conception your soulmate, or as he called them your 'dyad', is decided upon. Why? He firmly believed that in your DNA - which holds the code that makes up every part of you, both physical, spiritual and mental - that in your DNA there is one chromosome that is perfectly identical to that of your soulmate. This "dyadic chromosome" lives in both of you and it is the basis of your connection."  
"After all, DNA are the building blocks of a human being, therefore this dyadic chromosome is a vital part of your survival. As I said earlier, the soul is immortal. However, if your soulmate dies and you are left alive, does your dyadic chromosome stop working? Of course, it does not kill you. But Doctor Janssen called your soulmate your "dyadic lifeforce" for a reason. So what damage does it cause?"

The air in the room was thick with tension. It felt like it had warmed up! Everyone sat there in silence, mulling over their thoughts as Professor Stenhouse clasped his hands behind his back, watching the expressions of his students. Chris looked him straight in the eyes, and the Professor stared straight back. 

After about a minute, he spoke again. "This, I will leave to you to think about over the weekend. It’s almost time to leave and I think I’ve piled enough on you for today. On Monday we’ll be continuing the discussion, so I expect to see you all here! Read over your notes..."

Noise erupted in the room as everyone got up and began to pack. As they left, they chatted about the seminar, or what they were doing for dinner. Chris stood up slowly and shoved all his things into his backpack. He left the room the way he arrived. Alone.

Outside, the morning rain had disappeared, but the sky was still grey. Chris made his way to Market Square. Friday afternoon was always the busiest time of the week in Nottingham, with school kids and students milling around, rush hour traffic and plenty of eager shoppers about. Chris sat down on one of the benches beside the flowerbeds, checking his watch. 4.43. He wasn’t meeting Karen and Nicky until five. 

He was exhausted. Physically, mentally, everything. He thought by going to university his life would brighten up, but it just added more stress, mundane routine and loneliness. At least he could still go for a quick skate at the rink tomorrow morning.

His life hadn’t been easy, from the very start. He grew up in Calverton, a mining village outside the city, where every boy born went straight into the pit as soon as they turned fifteen. His mum left when he was six. He never figured out why, and never asked his dad, but he eventually came to the conclusion that it was because his mum didn’t love him. 

He loved skating. Adored it. He even competed as an ice dancer as a young boy. But his father put his foot down when he was fourteen, telling him that "you won’t get no income prancing around for the rest of your life." He wanted him to go straight into the mines after his GCSEs. But Chris had other ideas.  
He did stop skating. But after he got his results and left school, he joined up as a police cadet. His father never spoke to him again. And he ended up failing his exams in Dishforth. So he couldn’t be a policeman either. 

With no job, no qualifications or no family, he moved in with his best friends Nicky, who was studying in Nottingham, and Karen, who was studying in Manchester. For an entire year he did nothing. He stayed in their apartment most of the time, doing the housework so Nicky could rest when he came home. They welcomed Karen home every holiday too. But he did nothing else. He was only seventeen, and he had given up.  
He didn’t believe in love either. Why would he? He never experienced it. Besides, if relationships were like what his parents had, he didn’t want one. So he always bottled up everything, and never told Karen and Nicky the truth when they asked how he was feeling. 

But they were still so good to him. The previous summer, they sat him down and told him that the three of them were going to take out a loan in order to get Chris into university. And that’s exactly what happened. They got the loan, and he started studying General Arts, picking and choosing his subjects as he went. He was incredibly grateful that they had helped give him a second chance, but as the year went on, he was sinking back into the rut. He went skating to help him feel something, but it didn’t help all too much. He just felt... lost. 

The bells ringing in the nearby cathedral reminded him of his dinner with the lads. He stood up, scattering the pigeons that had gathered around him, and dashed to Mouse’s House, the cafe that had become their hangout.  
Inside, Karen and Nicky were seated at their usual table, and she jumped up to greet him. "Chris!!" she laughed as they hugged. "Longtime no see Barber! Mitching again are we?" he replied with a grin. "I got bored! I needed to come home for the weekend and see the old Notts again, being away is draaaining!" she said dramatically as they sat down. "Christ you could give Laurence Olivier a run for his money. Come let’s order I’m starving!" Nicky chimed in.

They chatted over their dinner about anything and everything. Their studies, the football, the general election, how exactly Nicky managed to get a pancake stuck yo their ceiling for over a week - anything.  
"So the flipping thing comes TEARING down the roof, screaming it’s head off and starts knocking all our flipping tiles off! I was ripping, didn’t get a nights sleep at all! Bloody cats." Karen was saying, cutting her steak furiously. "He’s not sleeping either." Nicky added, pointing to Chris. "Oh?" Karen asked. 

"Go on tell her." Nicky said, elbowing him. "No it’s ridiculous." Chris mumbled. "Chris come on there’s nothing you can’t tell me! Out with it!" Karen prompted, taking a mouthful of coffee.  
He sighed and looked down at his food. They were going to think he was mad.  
"Well... it’s been happening for a while now. I don’t know how to explain it. I can’t really..." he began. "Go on. You can do it mate." Nicky encouraged him. 

Chris looked out the window before he spoke again. "Every night I’ve been hearing things. It’s always outside my window. A voice."  
Karen raised an eyebrow. "A voice?"  
"Yes." he replied. "And my window rattles like mad."  
Karen nodded, looking at Nicky, who shrugged. "I told him I think it’s a pervert." he said, causing the other two to burst out laughing.

"Bloody hell Nick. You could be right. Either that or it’s that cat following me from Manchester!" Karen giggled. "You might be right! Never mind that, what are we doing tomorrow for Kaz before she heads back to the big smoke?" Chris asked, eager to change the subject away from himself. "Can we pleeeease go to the Castle?" Karen begged, clasping her hands. "The Castle?? Why the hell do you want to go there?" Nicky asked, looking appalled. "We've never been! And it won’t hurt to learn a wee bit about our city. It’s always there and the only time we were ever there was to go drinking behind the walls!" she clamoured. Nicky looked at Chris fo help, but he just shrugged and said "I don’t mind."  
"Alright. We’ll visit the bloody castle like a bunch of granny tourists." Nicky sighed, and Karen sipped her coffee in triumph. 

They got the bus home and went to their local for a pint, before returning home to watch Top of the Pops. They then proceeded to stay up talking until midnight, before calling it a night.  
In his tiny, cramped room, Chris lay in bed staring at the ceiling. His body was so weak and tired, all he wanted to do was sleep.

But then he heard it. That same voice. 

"Come and find me! Come back to me!" a girl’s voice wailed outside, and the frame of his window began to shake. He turned over and screwed his eyes shut. "She’ll go away Chris, she’ll be gone in a few minutes like she always does." he whispered, pulling his duvet over his head. "Please! Come and find me! Please!" the voice cried, sounding desperate. He heard tapping noises as she called him. "PLEASE! COME TO ME!" 

Chris didn’t budge.

***

He didn’t tell them about it the next morning, and they didn’t ask. They figured he didn’t want to talk about it. 

When they arrived at the Castle, it was rather quiet. A few American and French tourists were their company. Karen booked them in for a guided tour, despite Nicky’s grumbling.  
They went through the exhibitions, Karen and Chris listening in, Nicky barely. It was both art from Nottinghamshire artists and the history of the city through the ages, with some Robin Hood stories thrown in.  
"And here we have our Hall of Prestige. It features the portraits of many of Nottinghamshire’s most famous sons and daughters, and examples of their work." the tour guide announced as they entered a large ornately decorated hall towards the end of the tour. The three wandered around, taking it all in. There was D.H Lawrence, Lord Byron, Ada Lovelace and a large collection of politicians, artists, poets, playwrights and sportspeople.

Chris was reading a poem of William Howitt’s when he saw something shining out of the corner of his eye. He looked up and noticed a pair of white ice skates, resting on a scarlet cushion on a pedestal, protected by a glass case. He went over, intrigued. He’d never heard of any famous skaters from Nottingham.  
The skates were obviously ancient, as they looked very different to the ones of his day. They were wrinkled, with dirty laces and some tears. The blades were no better, shining but well-used. He looked at the picture of the skater in question. 

He felt the breath being pulled right out of his lungs.

The picture of this skater was in black and white, but it was still as clear as day that he could guess the various colours. It was a simple picture. A girl, possibly in her teenage years... or perhaps her twenties? She was dressed beautifully, in a white silk dress with her long golden hair decorated with a ribbon. But it her face that took Chris’ breath away. She looked like she was a sculpture, chiselled to perfection by someone like Michelangelo. She looked pale, with rosy cheeks and pink, soft lips. And her eyes. Her eyes were the most enchanting thing. They were what was drawing him in. They looked big and bright, possibly a shade of blue, with long, long lashes. And they were brilliant. Like she could have told a thousand stories with just one look. 

Underneath the picture, there was a tiny description:  
"Jayne Torvill  
1892 - ?  
Born in Nottingham"

Chris immediately turned around and called the guide over, asking him who she was. "Ah yes, Jayne Torvill. She was a figure skater, a massive star in Edwardian times! There was no competitions back then, so she was just a performer. Travelled around the world performing her own shows, and they say she was one of the biggest celebrities in her day." he told Chris, pointing to the skates. "And she was from Nottingham? From here?" he asked, getting lost in her eyes again.  
The guide laughed. "I know! It’s a funny one, an ice skater from Nottingham! But yeah, the Torvills were one of the oldest and richest families in the city. The name went with her unfortunately."

"Yeah what happened to her? Why is there a question mark?" Chris asked, not taking his eyes off her. "She was here, in Nottingham, after finishing a tour in 1912. The story goes that she lost it one night. "Descended into madness" they say, and then she disappeared." the guide replied, sighing and shaking his head. "She just went mad and disappeared??" Chris repeated. The guide nodded. "Who knows, she could still be out there. The chances of it are low, she’d be in her eighties now. But who knows?"  
"Yeah. Who knows." Chris said. 

The guide sidled away when Chris didn’t say anything else but kept staring at the painting. And he didn’t know why. She was beautiful, that was obvious but there was... something else too. And what it was exactly, he didn’t know.  
They went to Wollaton Park afterwards for a stroll.  
Chris couldn’t get her out of his head. 

All day.


	2. Chapter 2

"I don’t want to be somebody

without your body 

close to me"

Ellie Goulding and Diplo - Close To Me

"Christ I could stay here forever. I really don’t want to go back tomorrow." Karen groaned, looking out the window at the Council House as the bus passed through the city centre. Evening was falling on the city, and they were headed back to their place so they wouldn’t miss Top of the Pops.   
"You don’t have to, to be fair. You could drop right out." Nicky replied absentmindedly, pulling the zip on his jacket up and down. "And what? Give up on becoming a nurse? Not bloody likely." she laughed, rolling her eyes.   
"Why would you want to be a nurse anyways? Washing old men's feet and cleaning up sick?"  
"Is that all you think nursing is? I’ll give ya a punch now in a second and you’ll see what nursing is really like."  
"You have the temperament down I see."

Chris sat behind them, tuned out of their banter. He couldn’t get the thought of Jayne Torvill out of his head. He had to shake himself a few times to stop himself, but it was no good. What the hell could have happened to her?? And she was just so... angelic? Was that the right word? Well, she was beautiful.   
"Oy. Dreamy boy. Wake up. What do you fancy for your ninnies?" Nicky interjected, but Chris' mind was outside the bus as they drove through the Lace Market. 

"There’s the library in the Market... maybe there’d be articles on her there?" he was saying to himself before Karen smacked his arm. "Hello ground control to major Tom? Are you alright?"   
"Oh yeah sorry sorry. Listen, I have to get stuff for a paper in the library, I’ll see you guys later?" he said, jumping up and grabbing his bag.   
"Yeah yeah of course mate, see you then."  
"Go on, I’m still putting your name in though." 

He hopped off at the next stop and made his way through the cold streets to the Central Library. When he arrived it was quiet, but still an hour to go before closing. He had to be quick.   
"Sorry? I’m doing a research paper on famous people from the city and I was wondering if you’ve got anything on—"  
"Robin Hood is in the history section to your left. Lawrence and the other poets are straight ahead in literature." the librarian answered him, not bothering to look up from her work, her cigarette smoke wafting into his face. Chris coughed his reply.  
"Eh no actually, I was wondering if you had anything on Jayne Torvill."  
The woman looked up, with wide eyes hidden behind her thick glasses lenses. "Jayne Torvill? Christ haven’t heard her name in a long time. Em... we should have some things on her, check sports and the local section. We’ve got some articles too, would you like them?"   
"Yes please, that would be fantastic."

He found himself sitting in an empty corner with some books he had pulled off the shelves. Flicking through a book about the history of skating in the UK, he landed on a section about her. "Yes!" he whispered in triumph, pulling the book closer and hunching over it.   
It began with a collection of pictures of her. One of her as a little girl in a sailor dress, sitting at the feet of her rather severe-looking mother in a Torvill family portrait, seemingly sulking. Another showed her as a little girl, posing in skates in what he guessed was the city rink. One showed her sitting at the foot of a tree in Sherwood Forest, possibly aged fifteen or sixteen? She obviously hadn’t noticed the camera, as she was laughing, clutching a copy of "The Picture of Dorian Gray" to her chest. As beautiful as she was resting, she looked stunning when she smiled. 

He turned the page, and he had to sit back. It was a full page photo of her posing in her skates and a costume. But it was like she knew she looked amazing. Her costume was one of the most sumptuous things he had ever seen. Lace, chiffon and silk, dripping with pearls and crystals. Around her neck was a large diamond choker, and on her fingers she adorned several rings. Her face was made up beautifully, and her lengthy golden hour framed her face beautifully. Yet again, it was her eyes that drew him in. They looked into the camera earnestly, resembling an entire ocean of secrets. He dragged his eyes away from her to read the description.

"Jayne Torvill has held steadfastly onto the title of the United Kingdom’s greatest female skater, even when she lived in a time where she could not compete for medals or titles. Instead, the Ice Princess of the Midlands devoted her time to spreading the joy of her skills around the world, entertaining millions with her exquisite routines and tours. She was born and raised in Nottingham to George and Elizabeth Torvill, who were members of the city’s wealthiest and most powerful dynasty. As a child, she was well-educated and nurtured a love of reading and writing poetry, but her true love was skating, as she trained in the city rink that her grandfather had built. Her skill and beauty soon increased her popularity, as she began her performing life."

"She was taken under the wing of Richard Weymouth, a showbiz expert and high society man, at age fourteen. He became her manager, and they were known to have a successful partnership. Torvill became a superstar, performing for the Kings and Queens of Europe, the Tsar of Russia and the US President. However after a European tour in 1912, she disappeared after a party being held in her honour at the Milton Street Hotel. A chambermaid reported that she suffered a nervous breakdown, and her room was found completely trashed. A police investigation was launched, but closed in 1923 after years of searching provided no trace of the skater."

"Alright love, found these in the back for you." the voice of the librarian came, and she placed a stack of magazines and newspapers in front of him. "Oh my god thank you! Thanks a million!" Chris smiled, and began sifting through the pile.   
He scanned over several colourised photos of her in various costumes and read rave reviews of her shows. So much was about this superstar-like figure, her beauty, her talent and her illustrious family history. But nothing about the person she really was behind it all. She managed to remain an enigma 

An article in the Nottingham Post a few days after her disappearance read that "Miss Torvill reportedly retired early and went to her room. Her chambermaid later told Nottinghamshire police that she arrived in hysterics. When police forced their way into the room the following morning, Miss Torvill was not present at the scene, and the room had been severely vandalised. All the windows and the mirror had been smashed, and the bed linen was shredded. Police suspect foul play in her sudden and tragic disappearance, but do not rule out the possibility that Miss Torvill’s delicate condition may have led her from her hotel room." 

Chris sat back, running his fingers through his hair and sighing. "You really just vanished into thin air huh?" he said, looking down at a picture. She just stared straight back, those eyes, bright and big, remaining a cavern of unanswered questions.   
He found himself running his finger down the picture.

***

On Monday afternoon he was back in Lecture Room T87 for his Relationship Psychology seminar, after a sleepless weekend. The voice at his window didn’t in fact go away on both Saturday and Sunday nights, leaving him running purely on coffee. Whatever or whoever it was, they seemed like they were getting more and more desperate. The other students noticed his peaky appearance and the purple under his eyes, and the girl beside him made sure not to eye him up. 

"Today, we’re going to be looking at what death and separation does to soulmates." Professor Stenhouse began. "If a soulmate, or dyad, passes away, souls are severely damaged and begin to die inside the person, and they become a shell of the person they used to be. Separation is easier, but still painful and dangerous."  
"It begins lightly, but the longer it goes on it may take its toll. And not being with the person they love drives them to do extreme things. Just look at Anthony and Cleopatra, Romeo and Juliet or Cathy and Heathcliff."  
"Death is a far worse predicament. The two souls remain mates, but the living one wishes nothing but to be dead to be with their love, and the dead one can go to great lengths to return to their love. This of course brings in the question of ghosts."

Chris looked up from his copy. It was like someone had flicked a switch in his mind. Could the voice outside his window be.. a ghost? 

"Are they real? Or are they a fantasy? Believe what you want, and it is perfectly acceptable. But many who have studied the link between soulmates believe that ghosts are in fact a very real and very natural phenomenon."  
"Professor Lillian Green of Harvard University wrote that the soul of the dead lover returns to live on earth alongside their soulmate, in order to protect them. This event can coincide with the acceptance stage of grief. But of course, not everyone ends up in a relationship with their soulmate, which suggests reasons why it takes longer for some to overcome a loss. They do not have a ghost to live alongside them. Of course, none of this is scientific fact. It’s all just speculation. But if any of you sitting here find these theories absurd, then why are you taking my seminar?"

Laughter rippled through the other students, but Chris sank into the ravine of his thoughts. "Come and find me" the voice would say. What if the voice was his soulmate? A dead soulmate?   
His heart sunk lower in his chest. But did that mean this ghost just wanted to be around him? It seemed to want a lot more. It wasn’t like Cathy asking Heathcliff to let her in. This ghost wanted him to go to her.   
The whole thing was absurd to him, but the most ridiculous was that he had a soulmate. He knew he obviously had someone somewhere, but he wasn’t pushed about finding her. But seemingly she was dead? And needed him from something? He shuddered.

"Now." the professor continued after wiping his notes on death away. "We look at how one finds their soulmate. I’m afraid there is no formula, no instructions, no precise method of finding your soulmate. It’s all down to luck, and that is the unfortunate reality of most soulmate relationships. There are so many people on this planet, are there not? Researchers have put it down to a 1 in 10,000 chance. That’s 0.010%. But there is what we call a linking factor, which shared past experiences. If you have experienced something in your life, which is most likely traumatic, the chance of beginning a relationship with your soulmate, who has been through a similar experience, becomes far more likely."

Was his soulmate unloved and cast off by her parents? Was she lonely and stuck in a loop of depression? "Then perfect." he thought cynically. 

"It’s also been noted that there are several superstitious ways to communicate with your soulmate. Some believe soulmates who have been together for a long period of time, decades perhaps, can communicate telepathically. After all, your soulmate is your other half in the world, so this telepathy will come naturally."  
"Another method of communicating with your soulmate is found deeply rooted in Irish culture. The Irish, to this day, hold a great belief in soulmates and the existence of ghosts. They believe looking at a reflection of yourself will reveal an image of your soulmate."  
"Just like a mirror image, your soulmate reflects a vision of you. Your soulmate is the identical version of yourself that is found in this world, the other half of your existence that you need to find in order to obtain the ultimate happiness and completion. Soulmates do indeed share the exact same souls, and a mirror merely reflects that. But it is not only a mirror that can provide a way to find your soulmate. Any medium that reflects you, reflects your soulmate. It could be water, a window, even a puddle on the footpath."

"The ancient Celtic and Gaelic peoples of Ireland often gazed into water to find their soulmate. The practice was abolished, along with the rest of their customs, by none other than we Brits. But it was revived during the Irish Revolution, where young girls would often gaze into their mirrors and communicate with their other half. This leads me to my next question: what if your soulmate was already dead when you were born?"

Chris froze.

"It does not occur often. In fact, it’s a one in a million chance. Most soulmates are conceived at around the same time. But there is the extremely rare case of soulmates being separated by entire lifetimes. Perhaps decades, perhaps centuries. Several stories like this have appeared in Irish literature, like the tale of the Princess Síoda. Born in the 15th century, with her soulmate, the Gaelic warrior Bród living almost a thousand years before her. This - this is the rarest but perhaps most powerful form of love ever found. They will never meet, but the connection is still strong. And palpable."

***

It was pouring rain as he walked through Hockley to his bus stop. He pushed through the crowds, his head lowered as he stared at the footpath. He seemed to be walking in the opposite direction to everyone else.  
He felt like he was starting to go mad.   
He was apparently being haunted by the ghost of his soulmate from years ago, and he was stuck inside his own head, crippled and weakened by months of depression. And to make matters worse, his head was starting to jump to conclusions about the whole thing.

The whole weekend was dominated by her. The thought of her could not leave him. She had imprinted on him. And it wasn’t just her appearance that had stayed with him. Yes, she was beautiful. She was ethereal in fact, unlike anything he had ever seen before. But there was also a familiar warmth about her. Those nights he had spent lying awake, his mind swirling around in darkness. Just lying in bed in his room reminded him of how alone he was. Just him and darkness.   
But when he thought about her, she almost... calmed him. Like he had known her all his life. 

After the lecture however, he was unsettled. Why did he feel such a strong connection to her? Why did she have that effect on him? Was all that Professor Stenhouse had said true? 

Was it her? Was she the voice at his window? Was she... his soulmate? Calling to him from beyond the grave? 

He was jolted from his thought when he accidentally bumped into another man, who shoved him away. "Blimey! Watch where you’re going lad!" he reprimanded him. Chris muttered an apology and moved inside the doorway of the nearest building to let people pass. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, his head spinning. "What’s happening to me?" he thought.   
A woman passed him in the doorway carrying a suitcase, and he turned to let her in. Inside the door of the building was a hotel lobby. "Oh you’ve got to be joking." he whispered. He was standing in the doorway to the Milton Street Hotel.

He stepped inside, admiring the sheer luxury of the place. Crystal chandeliers, Greek sculptures, gold leaf decorating the dark oak walls. He had never seen anything like it before. He could see the security guard watching him, and his eyes flicked to the woman standing behind the desk. Before he knew it, he had walked up to her, despite his brain screaming "You’re an idiot you’re an idiot!"  
"Eh... excuse me?"  
"Yes sir, how can I help you?"

Aaaand here he was again, bent over a report over Jayne’s disappearance in one of the hotel’s dark store rooms. This time it was mainly a description of the condition of her room. Torn sheets, glass everywhere, broken furniture... whatever happened to her, she had surely suffered. Learning that the hotel staff had found some scraps of a nightdress really pulled on his heartstrings and he let out a heartbroken sigh, rubbing his forehead for relief.   
After rummaging through a folder, he pulled out a simple sheet of paper, covered in possibly the most exquisite handwriting he had ever seen. He turned it over, and she had signed it. He let out a shaky breath, his fingers tracing her signature. Perhaps this was what the Professor meant. A palpable connection. He turned it back over and began reading. It turned out to be a poem, with quite a quirky, free verse style.

"If I sit outside in the rain,  
I might feel the urge   
to drown in something else;   
Something that is not my mind

There is no darkness in my mind.  
It is just empty.  
Like my heart.  
Waiting to be filled.

Filled with something I cannot yet understand.  
Someone yet I do not know.  
But lost in the constellations of people,  
a sole star waits in the sky for me, and I dream of the night it falls to earth.

I will continue to wait."

Chris had never been into poetry, but here was something he could relate to. Drowning in your own mind. And waiting for something, never knowing exactly what it is.   
"Come and find me." a voice whispered, and he jumped out of his seat, scattering papers all over the floor. He whipped his head around, but he was alone. "Come and find me." it said again, echoing around him. He shivered, his heart feeling like it was going to burst out of his chest. He swallowed, clenching his fists tightly. "Jayne?" he croaked.

The windows flew open and a gust of wind shot through the room, knocking a few boxes over. Chris yelped and swore, slamming the window shut. "Be with me." she said, and he looked around again, half expecting to see her standing there.  
He wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead and quickly got down on the floor to pick up the books that had fallen. "I don’t know how to find you... help me find you..." he whispered, gathering the books into his lap with quivering hands. The books were quite heavy. They were bound in red cloth, and he examined the gold lettering on the front. "Guest Book - 1935". She obviously knocked them for a reason, so he pulled over the box and began rummaging around for the 1912 edition.

He pulled it out and set it down on the floor, tearing through the pages and skimming through the endless columns of signatures for her name. He found her, once in June and the other in September, her signature being the same as it was on the poem. He traced his hand over her first stay, looking for her room number. 

But written underneath, just three lines below hers, was his name. In his handwriting. Dated the following day. The 4th of June, 1912. In his own handwriting.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris, confused and unable to comprehend life without Jayne, goes to his Professor for help.

"I just wanna keep calling your name

until you come back home."

Taylor Swift and Zayn - I Don’t Wanna Live Forever

"At number 32, we’ve got "Somebody to Love" from Queen. At 31..."

The rain slapped against the windows of the apartment and lightning flashed in the distance, as Peter Powell’s voice rang out into the room. Karen and Nicky sat on the sofa, taking slow drags from their cigarettes, their eyes glued to Top of the Pops. "If the electricity blows before we see the Number One I swear." Nicky groaned, watching the lights flick off in the apartments across the road. "Don’t worry. It’s probably bloody Don’t Cry For Me Argentina again." Karen replied, flicking ash into the tray that rested on the coffee table. 

Behind them in the kitchen, Chris was pacing around the room, his cigarette clenched between his teeth. He was running his fingers through his hair, loosening the buttons of his shirt. His hands had been shaking since he came home and he couldn’t stop fidgeting. 

"Chris are you coming to watch? The Eagles are on soon." Nicky called over. "No. No thanks mate, I’m okay." Chris replied, probably too hastily. Karen craned her neck around to watch him. "Deano are you okay? You haven’t stopped stomping around since you came home." she asked. "Do you need a wee or something?" Nicky remarked. "Oh ha ha. I’m fine lads." Chris muttered, turning to lean against the wall. The pair on the couch raised their eyebrows at each other, before going back to the television.

"Actually you know what, we’re out of smokes. I’ll nick to the shop and get some." Chris announced suddenly a few seconds later, causing the other two to jump. "Are you mad? It’s coming down out there like—" Karen began but he was already out the door. 

Outside, the rain hammered down and thunder sounded in the distance, but Chris just pulled his hood up and made his way to the bus stop. Once he was seated on said bus, he stared down at his hands and thoughts of her consumed him again. 

He was beyond confused at this stage. Utterly befuddled was the best way he could describe it. Now, as well as being haunted by the ghost of his dead soulmate, he apparently had been waltzing around Nottingham in 1912, checking into hotels. They would lock him up if he ever breathed a word of it to anyone. He nearly didn’t believe it himself, but he had shoved the guest book under his jumper and brought it home to study it. His name in his own handwriting was still there. 

At this point he was either mad and needed help, or he had actually been around in 1912. He was never one to believe in the supernatural or any of that hokey-pokey, but the ghost outside his window had helped sway his mind towards the possibility of the existence of hokey-pokey. Still, he needed a second opinion. And a sane one.

He found himself back at the University, trudging through the grounds in the drizzle. Many of the buildings were still open, with people milling about. He made his way to the staff building, and looked for Professor Stenhouse’s office. Sure enough he found it, and the light was still on. "Right Chris. This could go one or two ways. You’ll leave here with answers. Or you’ll leave in the arms of men in white coats. Be careful."

He knocked, and the Professor’s voice ushered him in. He looked up from his books, his eyebrows nearly touching his hairline when he saw who it was. "Ah, good evening my boy. Dean, is it?" he asked, leaning in his seat whilst pulling a cigar case out of his jacket. "Yes sir. Christopher Dean." Chris replied. "Well sit down Christopher. What can I do for you? Bit late to be bluffing on an assignment methinks." 

"Oh no no it’s not that. I have a few questions about the seminar that have been pressing me and I was hoping I could get some answers." Chris said, sitting down, twisting his fingers nervously. The Professor narrowed his eyes and slowly nodded. "Happy to son. Who is she?" he replied, lighting up his cigar. "Excuse me?" Chris stuttered, caught off guard. "You’ve found a girl and you think she might be your soulmate I’m guessing. Who is she? Or he of course, I’ve never been one to judge the vast expanses of love. Do you smoke?" 

"Um yes I do. But not cigars. But thank you. And it’s slightly more complex than that sir." Chris responded, gaining his bearing again. "Oh love always is. Tell me son, what’s your dilemma?" the Professor fired back with a knowing grin. 

Chris fidgeted, pulling on his jeans. "Here we go." he thought. "Well... for the past few months... there’s been this girl at my window every night. Not a human girl, like a ghost, sir. And she keeps calling me and wanting me to go to her..." 

As he explained, the Professor’s grin began to drop, and his eyes widen. 

"And I’m not seeing or hearing things sir I promise you. I’ve heard her in other places too. And I also know she’s a real person. I found out who she is, and she was alive about 60 years ago..."

"She was existed in another time? And she’s appearing to you... What was her name?" the Professor asked, leaning forward. "Jayne sir. Jayne Torvill. I thought I was imagining it all, but after your lecture today I couldn’t help but think that she’s... well that’s she’s it." Chris replied, sweating nervously as the Professor’s eyes began to examine his face carefully. "Jayne Torvill. Bloody hell. That’s the skater that went missing isn’t it?" he asked him. Chris nodded. 

The Professor went silent for what felt like an age to Chris, before leaning back into his chair. "Well Christopher. It looks like you’ve found your soulmate. Or rather, she’s found you." he said, quite matter-of-factly. Chris blinked in surprise. He seemed to believe him. "What? You actually think she’s real? And that it’s her?"

"I believe what I teach Christopher. And I see no reason as to why she isn’t. All the signs are there. I must admit, this is the first time I’ve personally come across a case of dyads separated by time. And... it’s a dangerous one. You can’t be together I’m afraid." he says bluntly. Chris felt like he had been punched in the gut, but he didn’t relent. "But sir, there’s more!"

He launched into the story about the guest book, and as he did, the Professor’s eyes began to despair. He clasped his hands nervously, aware of the fact that the young man had found himself in a very difficult, and dangerous, situation. And he had a feeling he knew what he was going to ask next.

"Sir... I know you must think I’m insane... but I was there. The book points to the fact that I was there in 1912. Is there any way... I could go back?" 

Bingo.

The Professor shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "Christopher... this is a very dangerous connection. I’m not allowed to divulge much information on these genre of cases, because people have played around with moving through time before and the results have been... well, not good." 

"So I have to... forget about her? Ignore her? Sir how can I?"  
"Christopher—"  
"I can’t, I can’t."

Chris felt a lump in his throat. He was getting ridiculously upset at the thought of not being able to meet Jayne. But he couldn’t stop the pain in his heart. "I know it’s difficult for you to understand but... I feel like I need to be with her. Just to see her once even. I can feel her... in here." he said, pointing to his chest. The Professor was watching him carefully. 

"I feel like she’s been a part of me all along, and that we shouldn’t have been apart... because when I think of her, everything feels right. She takes the pain out of living. Just by imagining her. But she’s dead? How can I be with a woman who’s a ghost? I need to see her. Just once, and only once. She obviously needs me too. And as you said, we only have one soulmate. I’ll spend the rest of my life thinking about her. I need to see her."

Letting out a shaky breath, Chris ran his fingers through his hair. "Oh no. You’ve just ranted at your Professor. Oh no." he thought in panic. The Professor himself sat up in his seat again and looked at his desk, twiddling his thumbs. He let out a sigh.

"Well first of all, you aren’t really apart." he began. "You can’t be apart from your soulmate. You’ve always had a piece of her with you, just like she carried a part of you around all those years ago. Also she’s not dead."

"Sir?" Chris asked, confused. The Professor chuckled. "No one ever ceases to exist in my mind. They exist in their time forever. And time is such a flexible thing, Christopher." he said, looking him straight in the eye. Chris nodded, listening carefully. 

"Christopher, time is like water. It’s constantly flowing along. No matter how much water falls from the sky to add to a body, the old water always remains in some form or another." 

"So you’re saying that I can go back...?" Chris pushed gently. The Professor didn’t flinch, but continued. "If you can swim, you can conquer the water." 

"How do you swim sir?" Chris asked, beginning to twist his fingers again. A smile slowly began to spread onto the Professor’s face. He stood up suddenly, causing Chris to jump. "Christopher I’m afraid I have to go to catch my bus. But before you go, I must say, if I’m ever stressed, I like to take a good long look in the mirror." Chris raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly. 

"It helps me reflect. Reflect on where I am. And where I could be going. The mirror is such a comforting thing, is it not?" the Professor finished with a smile. Chris stood up, shaking his hand. "Sir thank you so much for your time. I’ll leave you now, but thank you." 

Once he had left the office, he started to run. He sprinted out of the building and across the grounds of the university. He ran and ran and ran through the rain, as fast as his legs could carry him. He didn’t even bother getting a bus. He just ran the entire way back to their local newsagent, making sure to grab a pack of 20 Marlboro, and bolted into their building.

"Bloody hell where’ve you been?! Chris! We were about to call the bloody coppers!" Karen cried when he dashed into the living room, throwing the cigarettes down on the table. "I’m sorry lads really, I just ran into someone from Calvo. Had to chat. I better go strip, my clothes are sopping! Night!" he blabbed, as Karen and Nicky looked up at him, unimpressed and not fooled. Nevertheless he disappeared into his room. 

"I bet he’s a met a girl. And he’s not telling us. Guaranteed." Nicky suggested. "She better be worth it, to make him go out in the rain like that!" Karen tutted, opening the cigarettes.

In his room, Chris changed into the nicest outfit he had and towel dried his hair to the best of the ability. He styled his hair as well as he could, and brushed his teeth fervently. Once he was satisfied, he went to the full length mirror that was leaning against the wall across from his bed. Staring at himself, his breathing turned shaky. "Please... please. I know you’re out there." 

And he couldn’t even process what happened next. His image seemed to disappear and was replaced with her. Yes. It was her. Standing in a voluminous, full length white ballgown with white flowers threaded through her long hair. She stared back, unmoving. But her sapphire eyes were shining. "Jayne!" he cried, pressing his hands to the glass. She didn’t respond, remaining frozen. "Jayne!" he whispered again, mesmerised by the mere sight of her. 

The glass beneath his hands lost it’s cold touch, and turned warm. He felt his hands begin to sink through, like the glass was turning to liquid. He gasped, but didn’t pull back, still lost in her eyes.

He took a deep breath, and stepped into the mirror.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris arrives in Nottingham in 1912, and there’s a dinner dance being held in the city for a certain figure skating star

"Baby 

you're like lightning 

in a bottle

I can't let you go now that 

I’ve got you."

BØRNS - Electric Love 

Everything was white. Air rushed around him, and he blinked furiously, attempting to see through his misty surroundings as he was pushed forward by an unknown force. He kept his hands out in front of him, bracing himself for who-knows-what. 

Then there was a thud. 

He felt carpet underneath him, and the cold mist was replaced by a familiar warmth. "Oh my god am I dead? Am I dead?" he said to himself, terrified of lifting his head up. 

But he did. Looking up, he saw that he was in a rather grand hotel room. He stood up slowly, his legs shaking violently. The room was lavish. A four poster bed, nearly made, sat in front of him, and on a nearby chair, a dress lay discarded, with a rather wide hat sitting beside it. It was a heavy white dress, like the costume Mary Poppins wore when she went to the races, and the hat had a ridiculous amount of fake flowers piled around it. He felt sorry for the poor thing that had to parade around in it. 

Everything was quiet, so he slipped into the next room. A large sitting room, with a fireplace and dining table and all. This was no Travelodge. Everything was so bloody expensive! Vases of flowers everywhere, massive gold leaf mirror, carpets looking like they came straight from the Middle East. Several large suitcases sat near the door. He crept closer to the cases, seeing that a white pair of skates lay on top. The same ones that were on display in the Castle.

"Oh no." he thought, panicking. He was in her room in the hotel. He pulled at the labels on her suitcases, which were dated the 4th of June, 1912. "Well Chris, you’ve really done it this time." he whispered, and leaned against the door, trying to control his breathing. He had just stepped through a mirror, and landed himself in 1912. Great. 

"It’s fine it’s fine. All you have to do is go back into the mirror, and you’ll be back in your apartment, in 1977." he rationalised, looking back towards her bedroom. The shine from her blades caught his eye however, and his gaze fell back on the skates. No. He couldn’t go back without seeing her. 

He took a deep breath and opened the door in front of him. An empty corridor greeted him. Sticking his head out, he noticed that a cleaner was leaving a room a few doors down. 

Lightbulb.

He fixed his jacket and strode casually towards her. "Excuse me?" he said, without thinking. The maid turned around and stopped in her tracks, looking him up and down. Well, he was dressed in clothes from the '70s. She seemed to snap out of it, and replied with a swift "Yessir?"

"Um... can... may I enter my room? I just wa-wish to change my... work clothes." he stuttered. If she was confused she didn’t let it show, because she nodded. "Yessir of course sir." 

Next thing he knew, he was in someone else’s room, rooting through their wardrobe, pulling an austere-looking grey suit out. He ducked into the bathroom and changed into it, shoving his other clothes into a wash basket. Once it was on, he stood in front of the large mirror in the living room, admiring it. "Not too bad!" he said aloud, admiring an obviously highly expensive suit. 

The door rattled behind him and he heard voices. He hit the floor, and crawled under a nearby desk. The door opened, and he just about heard footsteps enter the room over the sound of his heart thumping. "Well I’m dressed and ready to go for heaven’s sake! And I can’t fathom WHY you need to change! The one you have one is perfect, and besides the dinner starts soon!" a woman snapped, her skirts rustling as she swept into the room. "Watch your tongue woman! It’s the Torvill’s! I need to look my best or else I might get thrown out of the place!" a man replied, going over the wardrobe Chris had just pilfered. 

"The Torvill’s? Bingo." Chris thought, grinning to himself. 

"Wait - where’s my dinner suit? The grey one? I could have sworn I asked the valet to pack it?!" the man said, pulling out various suits. Chris screwed his eyes shut. "Please please please go. Please." he whispered.

"Oh for heaven’s sake maybe he forgot! The one you have on is perfect! Let’s go!" the woman cried, pushing the man out the door and slamming it behind her. 

Chris let out a sigh of relief and crawled out from under the desk. He brushed the dust off the suit, and stared at himself. "Find her. And then go. Remember what Professor Stenhouse said. Bad things happen to people who mess with time." 

With that, he left the room and wandered his way down several flights of stairs into the grand lobby he had been in only a few hours earlier, albeit 65 years later. Now, it was far grander, and the people that killed about were dressed to the nines. Women in tulle and lace Edwardian dresses with ridiculously wide hats, and men in prom and proper pinstripe suits and top hats. "Yup. I’m living in Mary Poppins land." Chris thought. 

He was just about to leave the hotel when he remembered the thing that brought him here in the first place. The Guest Book. He turned around quickly and went up the desk. Instead of an overly eager woman in a suit, there was a stiff-looking man in a suit, with his hair greased back so much he resembled Dracula. Chris half expected to see fangs when he opened his mouth to welcome him. "Sir, welcome, how can I help you?" 

"Erm yes, could I have a room please?"   
"Of course sir. Any preference?"  
"No none at all."  
"Of course. Please sign in sir and I’ll get you a key right away."

He handed him the scariest book he had been flicking through mere hours ago, and it was open on the same page that had baffled him so much. He scanned the signatures, and low and behold, there she was. "Jayne Torvill", in the most beautiful cursive hand he had ever seen. He signed his own name in the blank space just three rows under hers, and dated it the 4th of June, 1912. A shiver ran down his spine as he did it. 

No sooner than when he had gotten his key, he left the hotel and entered the bustling streets. "Holy shit." he whispered, looking around at the Nottingham of old, all around him. The buildings up and down the street were all red brick, and the tarmac on the roads was replaced with a sand-coloured mixture of gravel and dust. Instead of an endless line of traffic, old motorcars trundle up the streets with ease, and he even passed a horse-drawn carriage. The evening sun beat down on him as he walked through the streets in awe. When he arrived in Market Square, he approached a policeman standing on the steps of the Council House and asked for directions to the Torvill house. 

He found himself standing outside the gates of a huge red brick townhouse (that was more like a mansion) a few minutes from the city centre. Motorcars rolled in and up the long driveway as he trudged along. The sound of music floated from the French windows, and he watched as people, decked in all their finery, entered the house, invitations being checked at the door. An auspicious looking butler eyed him, so he decided to disappear around the back of the house, slipping into the beautiful garden.

He stood behind a tree, out of sight. "Right. How do I get in there without... well, screwing up this entire plan?" he thought, looking at the array of windows he could climb in. There was ivy growing on a section of the house, he could scale that? Or there had to be a back entrance, for servants maybe.

Before he could finish his thoughts, he heard a twig snap nearby. He jumped behind the tree again, and looked around in a panic. A few feet away, behind a tree, he noticed a girl sitting, her back turned to him. She was in a white dress, with long golden ha —

He did a double take. 

It was her. 

Just like when he saw her picture for the first time, he felt breathless. It was really her. The living and breathing Jayne Torvill. 

Her golden hair was shining brilliantly in the warm evening sun, and it’s length was decorated with small white blossoms... he recognised them. His mother used to have them growing in their garden. Madagascar Jasmine. Her dress was stunning. An off-the-shoulder tulle ballgown, with large skirts that gathered around her as she sat down. Even just looking at her overwhelmed him. 

He stepped forward slowly, and of course, a twig snapped loudly under his foot. She jumped up and he stumbled back behind the tree. There was a deafening silence.

"Who’s there?" she called, stepping closer to the tree he was behind. "Well, who’s there I said?" 

He looked up at the sky and swallowed, before stepping out. 

She came into view, a vision in white. She looked the exact same as she did in all her pictures, her big blue eyes shining like a crisp lake on a hot summer day, and her skin as pale as snow, bar her gorgeous rosy cheeks. Her expression of annoyed confusion melted away into a blank one. 

He swallowed, a strange feeling overwhelming him. He felt his skin go warm, as if it was burning. His stomach jumped, like it was filled with butterflies, and his heart started to skip a beat. Such was the effect she had on him, and he thought he liked it.

They were both silent, and her chest had started to rise and fall at a faster pace. Her eyes scanned his face over and over, a gentle stunned look painted on her own beautiful, beautiful face. Her eyes drew him in and he felt like he was moving towards her, despite neither of them taking a single step. 

He swallowed, his throat having gone a bit dry, and went to speak, but she bet him to it. 

"Is it you?" she whispered. 

Chris closed his mouth again, gobsmacked. She blinked, looking at him desperately. 

"Is it you?" she repeated, taking a step towards him. She started twisting her fingers nervously. Just like he did. 

The way she looked at him... like she had known him all her life, but also, like she had seen a ghost. He couldn’t draw which one it was from the deep blue of her eyes. 

"JAYNE!" a thunderous voice called, ringing around the garden. 

He snapped out of the trance they had both gotten caught in, and looked towards the man that approached them. He was tall and bony, with a sour looking face. No doubt more than thirty or forty years older than Jayne, he had greying-black hair with a fine thick moustache to match it. The suit he wore bore several medals, and he carried a fancy ornamental cane like it was a sword. 

He stalked towards Jayne like a tiger on it’s prey, his eyes trained on the both of them. "What’s going on here? Who are you?" he said insolently, eyeing Chris suspiciously. 

He looked at Jayne, who’s gaze was still fixed on him. The man stamped his cane into the dirt. "Well who are you?" he demanded. "Christopher Dean sir. I was just getting some air, and I ran into Jay — Miss Torvill." Chris replied quickly. The man looked him up and down, and gently took hold of Jayne’s arm, guiding her away from Chris. "Well then. If you’ll excuse us." he said. 

Jayne finally seemed to wake up, and began fixing her hair. "Apologies Richard, I was just clearing my head, I felt a bit faint." he heard her say as they walked towards the house. "You’ll be alright once you eat. The dinner is about to start." he replied.

Chris watched as they disappeared into the house, but not before Jayne looked over her shoulder at him, looking like she was trying to find the answer to a troubling question.

***

He didn’t try enter the house during the dinner. Instead, he walked around, looking in the windows to catch a glimpse of her. 

She was the main event. He learned, from eavesdropping into conversations held by the windows, that this was a dinner dance being thrown by her parents to celebrate the start of her European tour, which began the following evening, and it looked like anyone who was anyone in the Midlands was there. All eyes were on her. She lit up and talked to everyone, floating around like a Princess. He tried his damned hardest to keep up with her movements.

When sweet music began to play inside and people moved into the ballroom, Chris slowly crept up onto a balcony overlooking the garden, and slipped into the house. By now the sun had set and the stars had come out. People were filtering in and out of the ballroom and gardens, and people were dancing. Jayne was in the centre, dancing with her father. 

The men were stern, cigar smokers discussing politics or Titanic (Chris had completely forgotten about that!) while the women dripped jewels and silk, sipping the best champagne from France delicately from crystal glasses. Not a single person noticed him as he wandered through the ballroom, fixated on Jayne. 

He sat at an empty table, sipping the drink that he mentally compared to weak piss, from a glass that was probably worth ten of him, watching her. She moved with the grace of a swan, dancing with an array of men, giving all of them a dazzling smile and talking to them earnestly. Her laugh was a delicate giggle that floated through the air like a sweet perfume. She was unreal. Like something out of a fairytale. 

He was brought back down to Earth by memories of the sound of her voice outside his window. A chill came over him, thinking of the fate that was ahead of her. He tapped his fingers on the table and knocked back the champagne, looking at her again. How could he go back and leave her to that? He couldn’t stand the thought of it. She was supposedly his soulmate after all - supposedly the great love of his life. 

Did she recognise him? Did she know he was coming? "Is it you?" she had said. Not "Who are you?"

"Is it you?"

He decided to go find out.

He stood up and crossed the ballroom floor to where she was dancing with an army officer, and he attempted the move he had seen in countless black and white movies. "May I?" he asked. The officer gave him a polite nod and stepped aside, leaving him and Jayne alone in the centre of the floor together. She was wearing her earlier expression, of stunned bewilderment, as he offered her his hand. 

When she took it, and her soft, slender fingers interlocked with his, it was like electricity started crackling in the air around them. She let out the tiniest, almost inaudible gasp, that only he heard, and her eyes fluttered shut for a fraction of a second. He too was taken back at the sensation of her skin on his, as a feeling of warmth seemed to flow up his arm and take over his body. He slowly put her have on her waist, and hers on his shoulder, before they started to dance. He was bloody glad he knew how thanks to his skating. 

Their eyes locked when she looked up, and her lips parted softly, like she was attempting to say something. She was so consumed by gazing into his eyes that no other part of her could function. Chris couldn’t believe he was holding her so close, the girl who’s picture had transfixed him. Now here she was, very real and in his arms.

Several of the couples around them had noticed them, and very almost scandalised by the intimate way they were looking at each other. Richard Weymouth, Jayne’s manager and the man who had interrupted their first meeting, was watching in silent alarm from his table. 

When her skirts brushed off another woman’s, Jayne was brought back to Earth. She gave this stranger her best smile. "Might I ask who I have the pleasure of dancing with? And so beautifully I might add!" she said cheerily, doing her best to stop her gaze drifting to his lips. 

"Christopher Dean, Miss. And thank you... for letting me dance with you." Chris stammered. "As I said Christopher Dean, the pleasure is all mine! Beautiful night, don’t you think?" she replied, obviously a master of small talk. "Oh... yes. Yes it really is. Very hot." Much better than him. "It is. I hear we’re to have a grand summer! I just hope it won’t melt all my ice!" she said.

"Oh for gods sake Chris, don’t be an arse." he thought.

"And what do you do, Christopher Dean? A handsome chap like yourself, you must be an actor!" she tried, flirting absentmindedly.

As she spoke, Chris noticed underneath her eyes was caked in a type of makeup, covering up dark circles, and that her arms were aching slightly. She was quite petite, but still very strong. She danced with power and grace, but her tired appearance protruded. 

Tuning into the conversation again, he looked back into her eyes. "I... um... I..." he tried, his mind buzzing desperately. "I... I’m a skater. Like you." 

Her eyes brightened at that. "A skater? Really? My, this is a first for me! I haven’t met many men who skate. As you yourself know surely. Where are you from? London?" 

He could hardly answer "1977." "Shit. Think of somewhere exotic, somewhere she wouldn’t know a lot about." 

"Belfast." he replied. "Belfast? Wonderful! I’ll be skating there next week! I’ve never been, mind you. Do you perform yourself?" she asked, seeming to take a genuine interest. "No... I... er, choreograph. For different skaters." 

"Really? My, I’d love to see your work sometime. You’re a marvellous dancer."   
"So are you. I don’t know how you stay on your feet for so long."

She raised an eyebrow at that, and gave a small smile. "You know, sometimes I don’t know either."

"Or how you keep smiling like that. I feel like my face would fall off if I had to flash my teeth at people like that all night." he pushed, and it paid off. She suddenly snorted and let out the beginnings of an unruly cackle, before clamping her hand over her mouth. Chris grinned at her as she blushed. "Oh my word, forgive me."

"Nonsense, laugh away. It sounds nice." he said. She gazed at him and blushed again. "Ladies don’t snort Christopher." she prompted. "I suppose. I don’t like ladies though." he fired back, his stomach filing with butterflies again. This was so unlike him. Flirting? If only Karen and Nicky knew.

Again, she blushed, but raised a sleek eyebrow, wearing a steely expression. "How interesting. I would smile at you, but I’m afraid my face would fall off. And I need it to skate." she said gently. "So snort away." Chris answered quickly, and she cackled again, squeezing his shoulder as she threw her head back joyously. The butterflies fluttered violently in his stomach and happiness filled him, watching her glow so vibrantly. She was like a gorgeous butterfly herself. 

"A faceless skater that snorts, that’s a first I think. Though it’s more of a circus act I think." she giggled, settling herself more comfortably in his grasp. "Are you coming to the show tomorrow?" she asked.

He smiled gently and nodded. "Wouldn’t miss it for the world."

"Wow. What’s happening to me?" he thought

At that her expression softened and she found herself lost in the hazel eyes of her golden-haired, Prince-like partner. The smiles were gone, and they swept around the ballroom in silence, enjoying the feel of holding the other and examining their eyes. 

It didn’t last very long though, as Weymouth appeared almost out of nowhere and tapped her on the shoulder, holding her by the arm and whispering something into her ear. She nodded, and looked back at Chris. She curtsied, and he attempted a bow, before she was led away, and out of the ballroom, but not without looking back at her Blonde Prince.

***

Chris made his way back through the dark Nottingham streets, only lit by candles in street lamps, his jacket thrown over his shoulder. His head was spinning. All because of her. 

He went to sleep that night, for the first time in years, happy.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris does his best to see Jayne

"A lovestruck Romeo 

sings the streets a serenade"

Dire Straits - Romeo and Juliet

It wasn’t often he heard birds singing when he woke up. In the apartment he shared with Karen and Nicky, you could hear the pigeons cooing from about 5am. If they were still awake then - after spending a night talking, drinking, watching telly, the lark - it was a bad sign. They had class in a few hours and they’d squandered most of the night. The pigeons weren’t their favourites.

But this morning was different. Along with the pigeons, he could hear all different kinds of birds singing. He couldn’t tell what they were of course. He never heard the birds around the colliery in Calverton. Still, whatever they were singing about, it must have been good. 

He turned on his back in bed, and ran his hands over his sleepy eyes. He was lying in possibly the most comfortable bed in existence, with a golden glow casting around his room. Speaking of which, his room was like a little comfortable haven. Just like Jayne’s (albeit smaller) with all its rich furnishings and excessive trinkets. It was like waking up in a dream, but a million times better because it was real. She was real.

He turned over in bed and looked over at his suit from last night that was lying in a heap on a chair. He had met her. Seen her. Spoke to her. Held to her. He made her laugh. She smiled when she looked at him. And she made him want to do it all over again. There was no way he was going back any time soon. He had no idea what it was. "Maybe you really are crazy." he thought. He was willing to stay in 1912 and forget all about his real life in 1977, just for a moment to see her smile and hear her laugh. He couldn’t ignore how he felt about the whole situation. 

It was those feelings that pulled him out of bed, and urged him to have the most unusual shower of his life (standing in a massive bronze basin, pouring jugs of warm water over himself) and get dressed into another fancy suit. He made his way through the hotel and into the extravagant dining room, where breakfast was being served on silver platters. As he stood at the door waiting to be seated, he remembered the breakfast he had in a Travelodge outside Leeds the year before with Karen and Nicky; brioche rolls and coffee from a broken machine, sitting cross-legged on the bed in their cramped room that smelt like pipe-tobacco. 

Here, a waiter, in the stiffest-looking suit he had ever seen, guided him through the dining room towards his table. Around him, the cream of the aristocracy’s crop dined. Women in silken and linen gowns, in any colour under the sun, with giant hats or plaits filled with fresh flowers. They say with their backs bolt straight and sipped from porcelain cups delicately. The men were in their good suits, in various shades of black, navy and grey. They were all reading the newspaper, lifting it up and giving it a shake everytime they turned the page, like they were showing off to all the others. The children looked like perfect miniature replicas of the adults, but bored ones. 

"Here sir?" the waiter turned to him, revealing a table for two, set for one. Chris, who’s eyes had been lost in the vast dining room, looking for her, hardly heard him. "Um... oh no, thank you, maybe could I get one by the windows?" he said after a pause. The waiter looked at this young man, who’s eyes were frantically scanning the room, not paying an inch of attention to him. Nevertheless, they kept walking. 

His eyes scanned all the tables by the bright windows, that were surrounded by mesh canopies to give those diners more privacy. His eyes landed on one, where a few people sat, some of whom were from the ball last night. Weymouth sat at the head, as he watched the dining room carefully. He took a few steps forwards, and finally she came into view. 

She sat on the inside, tucked behind the canopy. She was wearing a light yellow dress with a heavily layered pearl necklace. Her long hair was in a side plant resting on her shoulder, filled with red and blue forget-me-nots. She was sipping tea as a burly man in a red soldier’s jacket spoke to her, she nodding along and giving an occasional smile. Weymouth’s eyes darted back and forth from Jayne and the rest of the dining room. 

"Sir? Sir? Excuse me sir, which table will you be taking?" came the waiter’s voice, butting in on his thoughts of her soft skin and the gorgeous rose red of her cheeks. "Oh yes! Erm..." Chris replied, looking around. There was a table sitting diagonally in Jayne’s eyeline and he had to stop himself from running at it. 

"This one will do fine. Thank you." he said, sitting down as quickly as he could, fixing his jacket and watching her. He absentmindedly gave his order, keeping his eyes on her the whole time. She, like every other woman in the room was sitting with a bolt-upright posture, lifting her teacup to her soft, shining lips. She had gloriously long eyelashes, like butterfly wings, that softly beat off her skin as she glanced out the window, occasionally looking down at her plate or back at the army officer that was speaking to her. Her hands were rested in her lap, her fingers twisting back and forth. 

His breakfast arrived, but his main focus was her. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, catching a glimpse of the subtle crack of her breasts visible just above the yellow linen of her dress. When Weymouth spoke to her, she gently flicked her hair off her shoulder to rest on her back, and the scent of the flowers that decorated her golden locks drifted across to him. As she moved, the sunlight cast down on her face, giving him tantalising glimpses of features. But it was her eyes - always her eyes - so deep and so misty with her own inner thoughts, that he couldn’t shake the thought of. "Jayne." he thought. "What I wouldn’t give to look into those eyes and have them talk to me." 

At that moment, she turned her head and looked around the room and her eyes fell on him. Chris immediately stopped, slowly setting down his knife and fork. Her expression was unreadable, as her eyes searched his face. His skin felt warm and his palms sweaty. "This girl. The things this girl does to me." he thought.

She broke out into a smile. A pearly, joyful smile, pulling her hair back onto her shoulder, as her own eyes searched his. He sat up, feeling the hot blush creep up his cheeks. When she looked at him, he felt like he lost the power to control himself, his body only allowing him to focus on her. He smiled, and she too blushed. He wondered did he make he feel the same way...

Their silent exchange was interrupted when the army officer regained her attention by touching her hand. A cold feeling came over him as his heart sank, she turning to converse with the officer. How could he compete with that? Even for a moment of her attention... 

Before he left, she looked over again, catching his eye. No smiles, just a long stare. Each trying to solve the puzzle that was the other.

***

He wandered around the city centre for the majority of that afternoon. It was the strangest feeling in the world. Not 24 hours ago, he had been walking the exact same streets, just 65 years later? Everything was in the exact same place, but looking completely different. A lot neater he thought. Red brick buildings with sand and gravels for roads instead of tarmac. Everyone was dressed like a scene from an old postcard. 

He found himself in Market Square, sitting on a bench in the shade of a great big tree. Her picture was in every shop window, on every kind of souvenir. He bought a tiny portrait of her - the one he had seen in the book in the library back in 1977. He was so lost in that small picture, he didn’t notice the young man, around his age, sit down next to him, scribbling in a tattered notebook. 

“Magnificent. Is she not?’ he said, startling Chris. He looked up and smiled softly. “Yes, yes. She’s incredible, I think.” The man closed his notebook and chuckled.  
“Christopher Dean.” Chris said, extending his hand. The man shook with another warm smile. “David. David Lawrence.”

Chris did a double take, studying the man’s face intently. He remembered the sounds of Karen giggling and screeching as she read “Lady Chatterley’s Lover”, showing some of the books explicit sections to the boys. 

“She’s this town’s little crown jewel isn’t she? We’re not the only ones so taken with her.” David said, interrupting his little flashback. ““No definitely not. Are you going to the show?” Chris asked. “No, as much as I wish I could. I have a meeting with a publisher this evening.” the man said. “I’m a writer.”

“You don’t say.” Chris thought.

“Are you?” he asked. Chris paused, before answering. “Yes definitely. I know her... in a way.”   
“Oh my! Really? How?”   
Chris paused again. “Well... um...”  
How the hell was he supposed to explain the whole thing to someone he had just met?

“Ah I see. Say no more. Old sweetheart is she?” David offered. “I suppose you could say that, yes.” Chris said. “But how on earth am I supposed to... you know...” he began, looking up. David was nodding slowly, obviously understanding where he was going. He took a deep breath. 

“We’re from two completely different worlds. She’s so... well, so much better than me in every way. But I still feel like we’re one and the same. In here.” he began, pointing to his chest. “It’s like on the inside we’re on the same level. But out here - in the real world I mean - I can’t get to her.”

David smiled, reaching into his coat pocket. ‘Well first, you sound like a man that should read Marx. Second, where are you from?”  
“Calverton.”  
“I’m from Eastwood. Your father a miner? Mother a housewife?”  
“Yup.”  
“Mine too. We’re one and the same.”

He showed him a picture of a beautiful women in rich clothing, like Jayne’s, and explained that she was the wife of a wealthy professor. He was madly in love with this woman and wanted to elope with her, but he could rarely reach her. 

“But this is what I think - look at this glorious city, this beautiful place we have been born in. Our blood flows in this city, for generations and generations. And look at the example we have been given.” David said, looking up at the Council House as he spoke. “Lord Byron wrote all his tales of epic romance down in this city, no matter how forbidden it was. And we can’t forget Robin Hood.”

“He and Maid Marian were from two completely different worlds. But he still found the strength in his love to sweep her from the castle walls and spend their lives together as outlaws. That’s what this place can teach us - it doesn’t matter what divides you. Love will always free up the forbidden.”

Entranced, Chris was disappointed when David stood up, putting his hat on. He wanted to ask him so much more. “Remember what Robin Hood once said Christopher, it’ll help us - “Faint hearts never won Fair Lady.””

With that, he turned with a smile, and strolled down the square, and opened his notebook again, disappearing in the crowd. Chris knelt over slightly, David’s words buzzing in his ears.

“Faint hearts never won Fair Lady...”

***

The flame in the oil lamp flickered beside Jayne as Charlotte opened the door of her dressing room, a gust of cold air blowing into the room. “I found it, it was sitting in the bottom of one of the trunks out the back.” the maid called, a gold headband in her hands. “Lovely, thank you.” Jayne replied, leaning in to look into the large mirror on her dressing table, smudging her eyeliner slightly. “Right come on, let’s fasten you in. This is the one the waist was taken in on, yes?” Charlotte asked. 

“Yes, Richard thought the first design was too... how did he say it? Frumpy?” Jayne responded, standing up and grabbing hold of the back of a chair. Charlotte laughed, grabbing hold of the strings hanging from the back of Jayne’s ornate costume.   
“Richard Weymouth did not use the word frumpy.”

“Well he should have said it, should he not? 

Charlotte tugged on on the strings and Jayne winced, breathing in and sucking in her stomach. “You are in no way ‘frumpy’.” Charlotte said, giving the strings another large tug before lacing the back of the dress up. “You are one of the - if not the most beautiful - woman in all of England. Your appearance does not need perfecting.”

“Well, one must do what they are told.” Jayne sighed as she sat down again and began to brush the end of her plait, staring at her reflection absentmindedly. Charlotte watched her carefully as she dusted off the large silk sleeves of the costume. Jayne’s eyes stared deep into their reflection, and scoured over her face. 

“Do you not think yourself beautiful Jayne?” she asked gently. Whatever was in the young starlet’ eyes flickered, and she began to run her fingers across the gold trim on her stomach. “Well... are we not told that vanity is not a good thing Charlotte?” she laughed forcefully. When she saw that her maid wasn’t laughing with her, the plastered smile faded. 

“I suppose... yes. I look into the mirror and I do think I’m pretty on the outside. I can’t complain. How could I?” she said quietly, looking down at her fingers as she twisted them in her lap. Charlotte paused and their eyes met in the mirror. “‘On the outside’? Is that-“

“How is she? The seats are full! She must nearly be ready?” Richard’s voice came as he pushed open the door with his cane. Charlotte grabbed the headband and placed it on Jayne, who stood up, brushing off herself. Richard burst into a smile and held his arms out in triumph. “La Donna Velata! She has arrived!” 

“Thank you. How long until curtains up?” Jayne asked, grabbing her skates. “Ten minutes. That design was ingenious, if I do say so myself. But wait...” Richard said as he circled her, before stopping in front of her. He reached across and pulled the front of her dress down ever so slightly. “Perfect. Powder yourself more, ensure the light catches it.” Jayne simply nodded and began to re-powder her neck and chest, simultaneously slipping several gold bangles and rings on. 

They left the dressing room, talking as they moved through the bustling corridors  
“So we’re still in agreement? The Chopin number is cut until Paris to give you more time to rehearse it?”   
“Yes. Mahler is still my closing number?”  
“Yes, although I have no idea what that watery piece fascinates you so.”  
“Well I quite like that watery piece.”  
“Jayne. Less cheek.”

They reached the curtains at the end of the rink, and Jayne got onto the ice, wetting her blades. The loud murmuring of the crowd protruding in on her thoughts as she went over steps in her head. She turned to face Richard, who kissed her forehead and patted her arm. “Good luck.” he said, before disappearing. She smoothed her hands over her dress and peered behind the curtain. She knew who to expect, society’s finest - Knights, Dames, Lords, Ladies, Counts, Countesses, Barons, Baronesses, soldiers and their wives - maybe even a Prince or Princess. And they’d all clamour to speak to her afterwards, gushing and praising until she felt sick.

As her eyes scanned the crowd, they landed on him. Christopher Dean. She pulled back from the curtains and her heart began to pound harder than it already was. “Oh my...” she said, feeling her chest, neck and face flush up. She looked again. He was sitting in the cheaper seats, amongst the common folk, staring fixedly at the ice. What had gotten into her? Yes, he was handsome. Very handsome. Well, extremely handsome. It was like into the face of one of Botticelli’s Angels when she saw him. But there was something else... he was familiar. Like she already knew him...

The announcer began the festivities at the beginning, getting the crowd excited, and he called her name. The curtains drew up, the spotlight fell on her, and she smiled a smile she thought would crack her face open.

***

Chris wandered his way back to the hotel, almost in a trance. The stars were shining brighter than ever before. The flames in the street-lamps seemed to dance. The laughter of the crowd around him rang in his ears.

She was incredible. She was ethereal. From the minute she skated out to her last bow, she incredible. Everything about her. She was the single most beautiful thing he had ever seen in movement. In that moment he could have gathered all the world’s finest poets, painters and sculptors and they together could not have created something more beautiful than she as she skated. 

“She has to be the greatest skater in the history of this earth.” Chris asserted as he entered the hotel. All her numbers, whether they were comical, heartbreaking or full of power and strength, they were brilliant. He could not have praised her more. She was a powerful skater, with skill and creativity vibrating off her bones.

Now he was standing at the door of one of the hotel’s fanciest lounges, where an after party was being held. The room was full of the “in” crowd, the rich and the famous (mainly the rich). 

Jayne herself was standing in the centre of a crowd of socialites, listening to them all praising her to the skies, nodding along, sipping her champagne. Her eyes looked empty, as if she was standing in the room but she really wasn’t there. 

He took a deep breath and stepped towards the crowd. He sidled in, listening to the conversation. “And the first costume was splendid! Was it you who designed it, Richard?” a woman with a dress covered in ostrich feathers asked. “Yes it was, thank you.” Weymouth replied. 

“Was it based on Raphael’s work?”  
“Yes! La Donna Velata! I saw it and immediately thought of Miss Torvill. It’s a beautiful dress.”  
“Raphael was so precise in the way he painted clothes! I believe it was he who popularized...”

It was at this moment that Jayne locked eyes with him, and everything else around them seemed to go quiet. All they could see was each other. Chris quickly looked around, and noticed that a door was open, leading out onto a balcony. He looked back at Jayne, who was also eyeing the door. He walked towards it, and she silently removed herself from the crowd, following him.

Out on the balcony, he turned to face her. She was twisting her fingers and brushing a strand of hair back. Her cheeks and neck were scarlet from blush. He wasn’t any better; the air around them was suddenly very heavy and warm, and the butterflies in his stomach began again. 

“Hello again.” she said, breaking out into a grin. “Hi... Hello, I mean.” he stuttered, blushing even more. “What does ‘Hi’ mean?” she giggled. “Oh just... something we say in Belfast.” he offered. She giggled again, before swallowing and taking a deep breath. 

“Were you at the show?” she asked, smoothing the silk of her baby pink dress. His face glowed and he nodded. “You were... amazing.” he said. She straightened up and smiled. “Why thank you!”

“No, I mean seriously... you were... unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.”

Whatever resolve she was holding melted, and all she could utter was a breathy “Really?”   
Chris knew he had to go for it. “Faint hearts.” he remembered.  
“Yes! You are so powerful out there it’s like... you own the ice. And your dancing is incredible. The way you feel the music... I was in a trance watching you.”   
“You’re too kind... thank you. Great music makes great skaters, like I like to say.” she said, searching the deep hazel of this angel’s eyes. 

“The Mahler piece was incredible! The fifth symphony is gorgeous!”  
“Isn’t it? I feel like I’m flying with angels when I skate to it.”  
“I choreographed to a piece of his back home a while ago... It’s addicting.”She stepped the slightest bit closer to him. “Tell me then.” she whispered “What was your least favourite piece?”  
He threw his head back in a laugh, and she grinned, her heart skipping several thousand beats in her chest. “I had to ask!”

“Well if you want my honest opinion...”  
“I most certainly do.”  
“... the clown number.”  
“I knew it.”

He laughed again as she rolled her eyes. “I hate that number myself, that’s why I wear a dress as small as that, to hopefully distract from my unenthusiasm.”  
Chris coughed, skirting over the image of her in the very small dress. It certainly distracted him. 

They went silent, and stayed looking at each other, for what seemed like hours, but was really only a few seconds. The glow of the balcony’s torches illuminated their faces, allowing them both to drink the other’s intoxicating beauty. 

“Christopher...”  
“You... you can call me Chris if you want.”  
“Alright. Then I insist you call me Jayne. Chris...”  
“Yes?”  
“... How long are you in Nottingham for?”  
“Oh well... um... as long as I want I suppose.”  
“Well then... you see...”

She swallowed nervously and ran her tongue across her bottom lips. His eyes followed the path her tongue took and he felt hot under his suit all of a sudden. She began twisting her fingers in an effort to stop herself from reaching up and stroking his hair.

“... I really hated that clown number.”

He laughed, not as loud this time as they were much closer together, their feet almost touching. “Yes I know. I could tell.”

“And I was wondering, if you would be so kind... if you would maybe work with me? At the rink here in the city, just for a day or two before we move on. I’m sure you’re a very talented choreographer and I could use your insights.”

Chris’s heart felt like it was about to beat out of his chest. “Yes! Yes of course!” he said, not caring if he sounded too enthusiastic. She glowed and grinned. 

“Wonderful! Would you meet with me tomorrow to discuss it?”  
“Yes yes I’d love to!”

They stood there for a few seconds, grinning like idiots, before Weymouth appeared at the door with a face like thunder. “Jayne. The Duchess of Devonshire wishes to speak to you.” he said. Jayne nodded, and went towards him. 

“Goodnight Chris.”  
“Goodnight Jayne.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris and Jayne spend some time together in Nottingham

“Cause there's a hole where your heart lies,

and I see can it with my Third Eye.”

Florence and the Machine - Third Eye

A paper boy sprinted down the footpath, his bag full to the brim of his daily deliveries. The milk man, also on his rounds, carried a green crate of the glass bottles, their clinking mixing in with the singing of birds. It was five past 8 on that June morning, and the sun was blaring down. He had heard talk of a heatwave in the Square. 

He pulled off his shirt, throwing it over the large screen that he had pulled around (Do Not Disturb cards did not exist in 1912 as he had found out, and he didn’t fancy a chambermaid walking in on him showering) and stepped into the bronze basin. “God I miss showers.” he muttered, lifting up the jug of icy water and pouring it over his head. He gasped, refreshed but shocked. 

He opened his eyes and his own reflection greeted him in the mirror. Picking up the bar of soap, his gaze wandered. This was his body. The thing he lived in. Back in the 70’s, he skated. He swam very occasionally, but it was skating that kept him fit. And this was the result. 

Living in his body was a strange existence. Girls gawked at him, and so did lads too. Of course he noticed it. But he didn’t know why. What did anyone see in the body he kept under wraps 24/7? What was he but a mess of sadness and questions unanswered? He never looked at himself in the mirror in a confident way. The thought of giving his body to someone, even a few days ago, was impossible. Who would even want to? 

Today however, his brain started asking unavoidable questions of his skin. What would a set of soft pink lips feel like on his own? Pale, dainty hands brushing over the hair on his chest? An icy-sea blue gaze on this body? Those hands trailing a pathway across his body, like a cartographer spreading ink over a map. 

His skin tickled with warmth, desperately looking for the answers to these questions, and he felt hot. A rush of blood downwards, that jolted him out of thoughts of those icy blue eyes. Throwing the jug over him, the cold snapped him out of his trance. His eyesight cleared and he looked down. 

“Oh.” his brain said to his devilish skin. “That’s never happened before.”

***

He went to the University that afternoon, and wandered around the Bohemian area that had built up around it. Little laneways of eccentric bookshops, suspicious looking “cafes”, artists flogging paintings, women leaning against lampposts on street corners making eyes with every men that passed... it was amazing. 

After having a browse through these bookstores and picking up the best cigarettes he could find, he set out to Wollaton Park for one o’clock. The heat was sweltering and the park itself was thronged. He wandered through to the more affluent area, where a polo match was taking place and the well dressed sat at tables by the river, watching various children run around. He spotted her, sitting alone at a table for two. He nearly missed her, as she sitting with a parasol up, in a heavy dress (like all the other women), reading. Her rose perfume floating on the wind greeted him.

“Jayne?” 

She looked up, and her face lit up, her pearly smile appearing as she stood up. “Chris! Hello!” she beamed. He returned the smile, sitting down with her.   
“Thank you so much for agreeing to meet me here!”  
“Oh, of course! I’m really happy to help...”

Her cheeks were flushed, and a band of freckles were beginning to emerge across her nose and cheeks. She was twisting her fingers of course, just as he was. Biting on her lip and tapping her foot on the ground - she was giddy - her eyes didn’t leave him as he looked around him.

“This is a beautiful spot.” Chris said, like he hadn’t been in that park hundreds of times. “Isn’t it just? It’s perfect for a day like this. I loved to come here as a girl, and watch the swans...” Jayne replied, gesturing to the serene birds in the water in front of them. “Swans...” Chris said, watching them carefully. She looked at him intently, wondering what this enigmatic stranger could possibly say. He snapped his fingers and sat up. “That’s exactly what you reminded me of last night. A swan!” 

Jayne went scarlet and giggled, looking down at her lap and twirling her parasol that bit faster than she already was. “Chris you’re too kind....” she said. “I really mean it... just look at them! They glide along, beautifully... this image of purity and elegance. And when they raise their wings, they look so strong! Look, look at that one!” he said, pointing to the water. “Look at her wings! It reminds me of your camel spin!”

He looked back at her to see that she was watching him instead of the water, blushing fiercely and chewing on her lip. He gave her a gentle smile. “Of course, you’re a lot prettier than a bird.” he added softly. She looked down at her hands again. “Thank you...” 

She swallowed.   
“Have you ever heard of the Children of Lir?”  
“No, I haven’t.”  
“It’s an Irish myth. The children of the Great King, turned into swans by an evil witch. The eldest daughter, they all said she was beautiful, but she was the one that suffered the most.” 

Chris went over this in his head, and came to the conclusion that... she didn’t think she herself was beautiful?

“But...” she continued, looking up and smiling again. “The Irish have the utmost respect for swans, even now. They see them as holding the souls of their great Kings and Queens and Gods.” 

“You seem to know a lot about this.” he said. “There was this ancient Irish storybook in the library in my childhood home. My father isn’t very fond of the Irish, but I still stole it. I loved the swans and the warrior Queens.” she said with a glint of mischief in her eye. “Of course, an Irish myth has never done me wrong...” Chris replied, thinking of the story the Professor had referenced. 

“Are those cigarettes?” she chimed, her eyes falling to the pack sticking out of his pocket. “Ah yes! Do you smoke?” he asked, opening it up. “Well... no. Not officially. My father used to give me some of his when I was a girl.” she replied. “Take one if you like. I know skaters shouldn’t smoke but who listens to that anyways! Half the England squad smokes!” he said, lighting his own absentmindedly (the old fashioned way, with matches). She gave him a funny look, but took one regardless, and he fell in love with the way she smoked! Like a pure natural. She flicked the ashes into the grass and sat back in her chair, letting go of her stiff posture slightly. They sat in silence for a moment, enjoying the haze of tobacco. 

“How did you begin skating Chris?”  
“That’s a good question... I think... I was about seven? My Mum got me skates for Christmas that year, and off I went. Took to it like a duck to water I think. And I’ve even doing it ever since.”  
“Seven, wow. That’s quite young. What drew you to it that much?”

He took a drag and looked at her. Her eyes went wide. “Oh no I’m sorry I didn’t mean to pry!”  
“Oh no it’s okay don’t worry! I just think... well, my Mum left when I was ten... and my Dad and I never had the best relationship... so it was a place to go.”  
“Oh Chris I’m sorry.” 

She was looking at him with such intent, he knew she genuinely meant it. He smiled, searching her eyes. “Thank you. You know... it’s hard to talk about, but skating is..”  
“An escape?”

She took her own long drag and continued.  
“I have a somewhat difficult relationship with my mother and father too. And it’s not in the way most might think. ‘Oh the poor little rich girl! All she wants to do is skate but they want her to be a lady! Oh my!’”

He laughed at her high pitched gaffe, basking in her joy. She giggled fiercely too, raising the cigarette to those lips. She inhaled and the smoke drifted out of her nose before she continued. “Skating has always been my escape too... because... it lets me be someone else. Or go somewhere else... somewhere that’s not here.” she said, gesturing to the crowd of aristocrats in their vicinity. 

“Or here.” Chris added, pointing to his head. “Exactly.” she smiled, pointing to her own. “Exactly here too.” 

With that, they sat just gazing at each other, smoking as their eyes searched the other’s. There was no awkwardness, that a moment of silence and staring between most people would bring, but it was... calm. 

“What are you reading?” Chris finally asked, dragging his eyes from hers to the navy book lined with gold that lay on the table.   
“Ah! ‘Two on a Tower’ by Thomas Hardy. Have you heard of it?”  
“Not that one, but I did read one of his books ages ago.”  
“It’s gorgeous!”  
“Ah!”  
“Extremely immoral I must say...”  
“Oh?”

She laughed and turned her body even more to face him, stubbing out her cigarette in the process. “Lady Constantine, she’s married but she falls in love with a poor astronomer. Her husband dies, and the two lovers live in this astronomy tower, and hide away from everyone, because of course how scandalous is it that she would take a lover below her class, and so soon after her husbands death?!”

“Christ that’s practically pornographic.” Chris quipped and Jayne snorted, clamping her hands over her mouth to stop an unruly cackle from escaping. “You did not just use that word in the presence of a Lady good sir!”  
“You’re the one reading this pornographic book!”   
“... Touché my good sir.”

He watched as she lit another cigarette, with her cheeks rosy from laughter and the smallest of smiles, and he felt his heart leap in his chest. “God I could just sit with her for hours...” he thought. He remembered the words of Robin Hood as she smiled back at him, and he knew he had to do it.

“Jayne... seeing as you don’t have a show tonight... would you like to-“  
“Yes!”  
“Yes? I haven’t finished.”  
“Oh if you insist.”

He laughed at her eye roll, seeing the excited glint in her eye. “Would you like to go to dinner tonight?” 

Jayne just grinned.

***

“I didn’t know they had coal mines in Belfast?”

Chris watched as she lifted the champagne glass and sipped delicately. People around them were staring at them, but they were too engrossed in their conversation to notice. 

“Well... yes, they do. They’re just... hard to find.”  
“And what was it like growing up in a colliery? I have to admit, my mother always talked down about them. She’s no fan of-“  
“Poor people?”  
“To put it bluntly, yes.”  
“She sounds lovely.”  
“She isn’t.”

Chris laughed and Jayne glowed, relishing in the sound of his laughter. He was the first person she had ever made laugh (genuinely laugh). 

“Well, what can I say? It’s not the Ritz. The houses are cold all the time. Pure brick. The water wasn’t great either. It used to cut out, or sometimes sewage would get into it.”

At that Jayne spat some champagne back into her glass and Chris burst out laughing. “Normally the company I’m in does not mention.... waste products at the dinner table.”  
“You asked m’Lady. And does the company you’re usually in bring you to dinner dressed like this?”

Jayne looked down at her afternoon-wear, conscious that everyone around her was severely judging her for not dining in her good evening wear. She picked up her glass again and shrugged. “Somehow... I don’t care. My company is pleasing and handsome company and that’s all that matters.”

It was Chris’ turn to blush, and Jayne felt a huge rush of ecstasy. Seeing his face and neck turn scarlet... her eyes trailed down to the top of his shirt and lingered. If only she could pull that top button open and... 

“Would you like another bottle of champagne Miss Torvill?” the waiter’s voice said, pulling her out of her immoral thoughts. “Eh... yes, go on. Please.” she replied. Chris was watching her carefully. If only knew what she was thinking about. 

Still, the look in his eyes was somewhat... hungry. It sent a shot of warmth down below and she crossed her legs tightly. 

She coughed and returned to her food. “So... what’s your persuasion?” she asked. “My persuasion?” he replied, raising his eyebrow. “Yes. As in, Conservative, Liberal, Labour...”

“Ah! Labour.”  
“Really?”  
“Yes of course. I’m a miner. Well, from mining blood.”  
“Of course.”  
“You?”  
It was Jayne’s turn to raise her eyebrows. “I’m a woman.” Chris looked at her like she’d gone crazy. 

“Ohhhhh” he thought. This was 1912. 

“Well you have an opinion? They can’t take that from you.” he offered. She smiled coyly and clinked her glass with his. “Votes for women!” she whispered. ‘Votes for women!” he reaffirmed. “My family have been true blue Conservatives for generations. So many uncles and grand-uncles and grandfathers and great-grandfathers have been MPs.” she continued. “But...”  
“But?” Chris teased. Jayne smirked and leaned back. 

“Labour.”  
“Wahey!”  
“What can I say? I’m a socialist. Why do I need all these dresses and jewels and hotels when the people who keep this country afloat are earning tuppence? It’s ridiculous!”  
“I will drink this extremely expensive and rare French champagne to that!”

Jayne threw her head back and cackled as they toasted their glasses, causing several of the people around them to stare. Her laugh was loud and cutting like glass. He loved it. The way her cheeks grew pink, the muscles in her neck contracted slightly and she scrunched her eyes shut. She was like a firecracker. “Cheers indeed!”

“Have you read Marx?” she asked when they had calmed down. “No. Not yet anyways, I probably will with my studies. You’re the second person to mention Marx since I got here!”   
“What can I say? We’re the Liverpool of the Midlands.”  
“Are we really?”  
“Well, I like to think we are.”  
“Have you read Marx then?”  
“No. Richard would kill me if he ever found out.”

“Who is Richard anyways? Can I ask?”  
“Of course! He’s my manager.”  
“And he manages what you read?”  
“Well... he’s just particular about certain things.”  
“Everything?”  
“Yes everything. But he’s got me to where I am now. I’m very grateful for him.”

She said this without much enthusiasm.

“Oh does he do the skating for you then?”

She put her knife and fork down and stared at him, her eyebrows arching. “Oh fuck Chris. Well done. Everything you did for the past few days is now out the window.” he thought, his heart sinking in his chest. 

She pointed her fork at him. “This is why I like you.”

“Oh thank fuck.” he thought. 

“You don’t sugarcoat and flap over me like every other person I ever meet does. You say what we’re both thinking.” she said. “I’m glad. I thought you were going to stab me with your fork for a second.” 

“So what do you do when you’re touring for fun? If you can have any with Richard around.”  
“I can have fun!”  
“Really?”  
“Yes... I want to show you something. Bring the bottle of champagne, if you please.”  
“Yes ma’am!”

***

“How on earth do you have a key for the castle?”  
“Being the daughter of the richest man in the city is very helpful you know.”  
“Can you hear that?”  
“What?!”  
“If you listen very carefully... you can hear Marx screaming in his grave somewhere.”  
“Oh shut up!”

They had left the restaurant, but not after necking 2 bottles of champagne and buying another. Now they were traversing through the tunnels beneath the Castle, after a climb through some shrubbery that tore the orange section of Jayne’s gown. She just laughed and tore it off, leaving her in a plain white dress, with Chris’ navy coat around her. 

The tunnels were dimly lit and water dripped from the roof. Chris looked over at Jayne, who was attempting to pour herself another glass of champagne, but her aim was off. “Leave the glass, just drink from the bottle.” he suggested. At that, she dropped the glass and it shattered behind her. She took a mouthful and some spilled down her chin. She swallowed and burst into a fit of giggles, passing him the bottle. “Christ! Something tell’s me you’ve never drank this much before!” Chris laughed before taking a swig. She just shook her head, smiling at him.

Her hair had fallen from her plait and her shoes were covered in mud. Gone was the girl he had met on the night of the ball. Here was something much... freer. 

She guided him to a nearby door and unlocked it with a large key she had to retrieve from her hotel room. They traipsed up several dark sets of stairs, before she led him into a dark room and lit one of his matches. The light revealed very little, but he could make out something on a wall. It was... a painting.

“Only the finest art museum outside of London!” Jayne said, lighting an oil lamp that lay nearby and picking it up. Chris’ face broke out into a massive smile. “You’ve only just gone and broken us into a museum!” he said. Jayne shrugged. “Is it breaking in when you have a key?”

They walked around, guided by the light of the lamp, looking at all the paintings and sculptures. They talked about them, making up stories or trying to determine what the artist was trying to say. 

Jayne led him over to a portrait of a woman in a rather ornate white and gold dress. “La Donna Velata, by Raphael. It’s the painting my costume is based on.” she said, holding the lamp up as Chris took a closer look. “Holy shit...” he whispered. 

“She was his mistress. Margarita Luti. He was supposed to marry a niece of the Pope’s, but he chose her instead. And he modelled all his paintings on her.” Jayne said, as they both stood and admired the girl’s beauty. “What happened to them?” Chris asked. 

“Do you not know?””No?”  
“Well... Raphael died. He caught a flu, after they spent days doing nothing but making love.”  
“Oh. Not a bad way to go out I’m sure.”

Jayne laughed, taking a drink of the champagne and linking her arm with his. They continued to wander through the rooms, until Chris noticed a large sculpture in the middle of the main room. 

“Is that Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss?!”  
“Yes! It’s over from Paris for a while I believe!”  
“Holy shit!”  
They stood in silence for what felt like hours, both of them circling the grand statue of a girl being revived from death by a kiss from her lover. 

“Do you think love can change a person?” Jayne asked suddenly, her eyes flicking from Cupid to Chris. He looked back at her, her eyes sparkling in the light of the oil lamp. “Well... I don’t know. Do I think two people can meet and change the course of their lives... yes, it’s in all the stories.” he replied. “Just that one person appears... and suddenly everything’s different.” Jayne said, her eyes falling back to Psyche. 

***

After a somewhat easy departure from the castle, they wandered through the Bohemian quarter, buying a bottle of what appeared to be white wine and splitting it between them. Jayne hung onto his arm, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. They talked, laughed and drank, wandering into bookshops and chatted with the girls on the street corners. They arrived back at their hotel, and they walked up to her room. 

“You know what I just realised?” Chris said as they stood at the door of her suite. “What?” she giggled, holding his hand in hers and to her chest. “We never actually discussed choreographing a routine.” he replied, smiling down at her. Their noses were nearly touching. She just laughed and squeezed his hand. 

“Well I guess that means we’ll have to meet again tomorrow.”  
“Agreed.”

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. Her wide grin melted into a gentle smile, and she leant into his touch. He pulled back and looked at her. “Goodnight Jayne.”  
“Goodnight Chris.”

He let go, and turned to go back to his floor. Jayne looked down and realised he had left a book in her hands. One of Karl Marx’s. She burst into giggles, pushed her door open and fell in.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris and Jayne begin grow closer as Jayne prepares to leave Nottingham

“You saw her bathing on the roof

Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you”

Hallelujah - Jeff Buckley

At 9 o'clock the following morning, Chris was awake. Staring at the intricate details on his ceiling, humming a Bee Gees song. Outside his window, he could hear plenty of yelling and crashing, from the tradesmen and carriages on the street below. He went to the window and leaned out into the hot morning sun, taking in the sights of Nottingham's early risers. 

Below, a group of women burst into fits of giggles upon seeing the shirtless man in the window above them. But he couldn't hear any of it. He pulled back inside, his head foggy and warm with the sound of Jayne's laughter echoing in the tunnels the night before. As he got dressed, his eyes remained focused on the postcard resting on the table - the beautiful photo of Jayne in all her glory. He could still smell her perfume on his shirt. The thought of seeing her at breakfast hurried him on. 

Down he went, and he was seated at his usual table. The dining room was bustling and loud, but he sat down, ordered and kept his eyes locked on the door. Fidgeting with his cutlery, he watched as scores of people enter the dining room. His breakfast arrived, and he ignored, only sipping his tea and waiting for the golden haired beauty to arrived. 

Finally at half past nine, her entourage arrived into the dining room - but she was not with them. Chris frantically searched the dining room for her again. Had he done something? His stomach knotted up with nerves, his teacup shaking in his hand. Maybe he shouldn’t have kissed her on the forehead? Or maybe she was offended by the book? His mind began to race with guilt. 

At that moment, Weymouth, her manager, entered and marched over to her entourage’s table, and began to speak to them. Several tables in the dining room had noticed Jayne’s absence and began to whisper. Weymouth turned around to leave the dining room, but his eyes met Chris’ and he stopped, clutching his cane, his eyes narrowing with a venom filled glare. Chris froze, but could only stare back and sweat. 

After what felt like an eternity, Weymouth turned and left, hurrying up the grand staircase. “Bloody hell...” Chris whispered to himself, letting out a shaky sigh. He picked up his cutlery but his hands were quivering too much to actually begin his breakfast.

***

Charlotte stood at the great marble sink in her mistress’ bathroom, filling a jug with cold water and tapping her foot nervously. She grabbed a flannel and hurried across the suite and pushed open the mistress’ bedroom door. 

Lying in the grand four poster bed, face down into her pillow with one hand clutching a basin, was a moaning Jayne. She looked up when her maid entered, her golden hair stuck to her sweaty face. “Now! Come on Jayne sit up for me!” Charlotte chirped, leaving the jug on the beside table and leaning over to help Jayne sit up (well, she was actually dragging her to sit up). 

“Oh Lotta I might vomit again be gentle.” Jayne groaned, leaning against her pillow and wincing. “No you won’t you got most of it up earlier - and plenty more water.” Charlotte replied, placing the wet flannel on her forehead. The maid sat down on the bed and held her hand, and Jayne’s groans quietened as she closed her eyes and let the cold flannel work it’s magic.

“Lotta I think I’m going to die.”   
“Drinking three bottles of champagne will make you feel like that.”  
“How was I to know that being drunk for the first time would result in such sickness? Do I need the doctor?”  
“If the doctor tended to every person in your state he’d be the busiest man in Nottingham.”  
“I will never drink again.”  
“Of course you won’t.”  
“Can I still skate today?”  
“Yes you should be well enough by the afternoon. You need rest, little food and a lot of water.”

Silence ensued, as Jayne began to doze and Charlotte watched her, studying her tired expression. “Might I ask who you were consorting with last night?” she asked. Jayne’s face immediately blushed and she smiled lazily. “Remember the man from Belfast I went to discuss a new routine with yesterday?” she said curtly. Charlotte immediately squealed and clapped. “Oh the handsome one I’ve seen around the hotel! Is he courting you?!”

“What? No. He’s just a friend!” Jayne insisted, her cheeks blushing, this time with embarrassment. “Ah. I see.” Charlotte replied, not looking convinced. “We met and had dinner and perhaps we both had a bit too much to drink.” Jayne said, sitting up. 

The door to her suite opened and Richard entered, pushing her bedroom door open with his cane. Charlotte got up and stood uniformly beside the bed. Jayne sat herself up even more and folded her hands in her lap. “Good morning Richard.” she said as delicately as she could. “I was in here already Jayne, when you were vomiting earlier.” Richard replied coolly, leaning on his cane. Jayne swallowed and replied “Oh. Well I apologise that you had to see that.” 

“You should apologise fully for getting yourself into that state the night before a show. What were you thinking? You’re only a woman, you can’t stomach that much alcohol!” he said sharply, and signalled for Charlotte to leave. Jayne said nothing and looked down.

He closed the door and looked back at her. “I take it it was the Fenian boy who assisted you in your actions.”   
“Richard! Don’t use that word, it’s insulting.””Do you know how insulting it is to see a fine man’s daughter allow someone like him to get you into a drunken state?”  
“This fine man’s daughter got herself drunk, sir.”

Both were silent, in shock. Jayne never answered him back, and Richard Weymouth did not like to be answered back to. He approached the side of her bed. “I don’t know what you were doing last night, but I hope you realise how extremely dangerous it is to see a girl like you, from a family like yours, running around with a boy like him. How dangerous it is to your reputation. You are not married Jayne.”

Jayne swallowed. Terrible things happened to unmarried women who were even seen meeting with a man, unchaperoned. But when she thought of Chris, her stomach filled with anger, if Richard was accusing him of being a bad person.   
She sat up straight and looked her manager in the eye. “I can assure you that Mr. Dean is a good man, and if you insinuate that he is not, that would greatly displease me.” she said carefully, putting a slow, angry emphasis on ‘greatly’. 

“Jay-“  
“And he is a fine skater too. I will be meeting him later at the rink, and he will help me create a new routine for the show.”

Richard leaned back, his grey eyes staring seethingly into hers. “As you say Jayne. But remember, your parents and I have put a lot of work into procuring you a husband. It would greatly displease me if you suddenly became ungrateful to my help in creating your future.”   
“I won’t.” she replied.   
“Good.”

He turned and marched out, leaving Jayne in her white night dress in bed, fiddling with her gold necklace to distract herself from her anger. Charlotte re-entered, with a fresh flannel. “How do you feel now Jayne?”

Jayne looked at her skates lying on the floor. “Better. Get my practice dress and a glass of water please Lotta. I’m going to the rink.”

***

Returning to the rink was one of the most surreal things Chris had experienced so far. He found his way easily, strolling into the park in front of the building, clutching a pair of skates he managed to buy in a market downtown. The building, rather unsurprisingly, didn’t look too different in 1912. 

Inside however was a different story. It was quite - virtually empty - with just the sound of the staff chattering in the skate room. The mural on the wall in the foyer was completely different to the one in 1977, with it being far more detailed and old fashioned. 

The sound of blades on the ice interrupted his curiosity, and he made his way through the tunnel into the rink. Jayne was there, going around the rink as if she was a speed skater, with a frustrated look on her face. Her hair was in a long plait, flying behind her as she rushed around like she was trying to lift off into the air. He swallowed as she noticed him and immediately stopped. 

“Chris!” she said, her face lighting up and she rushed over to the wooden boards. All his worries from that morning melted away on seeing her smile at him and he couldn’t help but grin back. “I’m quite excited you’re here, I’ve been warming up for a while now! Thank you so much!” she said, clutching the boards as she flushed red all over. Doing what he had been rehearsing in his head all day, he picked up her hand and kissed it gently. “M’Lady.”

“Oh stop that!” she laughed, her arm shaking slightly in his hand. She took his other hand and pulled him out onto the ice. “No need for that. I want to see you skate!” she insisted. “I thought you were the showgirl here.” he replied as they skated alongside each other around the rink, she watching his feet. 

He went off and did his own warm up as she watched from the boards. “Bloody hell! I think you’re as good as me.” she called out, after spending a few minutes studying him. “You sound surprised!” he laughed. “I’m delighted! I know your expertise will be useful to me now.” she teased as he came to a stop beside her.

“I noticed you weren’t at breakfast this morning.”   
“Everyone seems to have. The champagne took its toll.”  
“I was thinking it might. How are you now?”  
“A bit fragile. But I promised you we would meet.”

Chris smiled and she bashfully flicked her plait over her shoulder. “We’re being watched, just to let you know.” she added quietly, flicking her eyes over to the music room. Chris looked up to see Weymouth staring down at them like a hawk. “Bloody hell. Does he need to be here?” he asked. “Not necessarily. But yet here he is.” she said. 

“Have you ever skated with a partner?” Chris asked after they had spent a few minutes skating silently around. “I did, when I was a girl. But I was encouraged to go solo. And you?” “Yes, I was the same. So you know the basics?” “Of course!”

She extended her hand to him and he took it. That same feeling they had experienced when they first danced at the party in her family home happened again, as their breathing went slightly uneasy and their skin grew warm in each other’s hold. 

They began, skating a few simple warm ups they remembered from their youth, and they began to discuss the routine. 

“I don’t know how to explain it. The Mahler piece is gorgeous. It’s so beautiful, it makes me feel like an angel flying through the heavens...”

Chris watched her expression and smiled, drinking in her passion and way with words.

“And it’s beautiful. But I want to find something that makes me feel grounded... like a realistic experience, here on earth.” she said. “Like a simple human experience.” he volunteered. “Yes! Like the emotions normal people feel. Something... so simple but... it’s such a powerful thing.” 

“I know what you mean. You want to be here, instead of somewhere else. And feel...”   
“Exactly. Except I don’t know what that feeling is! I can’t put it into words.”  
“Try. Paint it out. Make a mess if you have to.”  
“Like... like a pure rush of emotions. But all channelled into one thing. And to be able to let it flow and drip and soak into the air. Make it heavy with what I’m feeling.”  
“So like a wave of emotion. But it’s all directed into one thing. One place or... one person.”

They stopped and their eyes met. They hadn’t noticed how flushed they’d both become, but Jayne continued looking at him earnestly. “I’m not... I’m not the best at feeling. Well... I think I feel too much, and I don’t know what to do with it. My emotions are both my biggest enemy and friend.” she said. Chris smiled and squeezed her hands. “Me too.” he said. 

Her somewhat nervous expression faded into a smile. “Oh thankfully. You don’t think I’m mad.”  
“No. I think you’re just as sane as me.”  
“Amn’t I lucky?”

They both started to laugh as Jayne looked up at the music room. Richard had disappeared. “Where do we start?” she asked. “Well.. we need to find you that music. Proper music. So as soon as you hear it you know its the one. Where could we get music right now?” Chris said. “The city library hold the collection of our records I believe. I’ve never asked, but I’m sure they’d allow us in.”

Chris looked up, saw that Richard was still gone from the music room, and looked back at Jayne. They both smirked. 

***

“I’m a dead woman. I’m very much dead already. He’s going to kill me.”   
“You’re doing this in the name of skating. It’s research.”  
“You’re leading me astray Christopher Dean.”  
“And you’re enjoying it just as much as I am.”  
“That I am.”

They were hurrying down a busy street towards the library, arm in arm as the hot sun beat down on them. Jayne was back in a heavy white dress, with a large hat, gloves and her parasol. She had tied a piece of silk to her hat and was using it to hide her face, and she stared down at the footpath as they walked along. Chris thought it was strange, but he didn’t want to bother her about it now.

They reached the library, and the gentleman at the desk didn’t ask too many questions when Jayne introduced herself and asked to see their record collection. He led them to a room downstairs, that was filled with shelves that were so tall they reached the ceiling, filled with records upon records upon records. He left them to it, and closed the door as he left.

“Holy shit...” Chris said, taken aback as he wandered over to the nearest shelf, running his fingers across the sleeves. “Indeed.” Jayne added, untying her hat and wiping beads of sweat off her forehead. “If we don’t find something here I’ll be very surprised!” he said. 

And so it began. They began to browse each shelf, playing the ones they liked the look of on the large gramophone beside the door. They would listen for about a minute, and Jayne would give a verdict. Nine times out of ten, they both didn’t like them.

About two hours later, Jayne was sitting against one of the shelves, sorting through a pile of records, with her gloves and boots off with her hair pulled out of the plait. Chris was down the other end of the room, picking through a shelf. He was slightly out of his depth, with so much music he had never heard before. Back in 1977, his most played album was “Rumours”. There was nothing like Fleetwood Mac to be found here. “Anything down there?” Jayne called out.

“I have a few things. You?”  
“A few. Nothing is jumping out at me though.”  
“We’ll find something.”  
“I hope so. Preferably before five o’clock. I’ll have to return to the rink for the show.”  
“If not, we’ll come back tomorrow... if you want.”  
“Of course!”  
Chris swallowed, not wanting to know but knowing he had to ask. “When do you leave? As in what’s your next stop?”

She went quiet too, but replied. “The morning after tomorrow. We go to London for three nights.” 

He sighed, his heart heavy in his chest. “London, wow! I’ve never been.” “I think you’d enjoy it. It has a brilliant creative scene.” 

Chris carried a pile down to where she was and sat down across from her. “Ooh lovely!” she smiled, as she fidgeted with the laces at the back of her dress. He noticed there was sweat on her neck, and she looked uncomfortable. “Are you too warm?” he asked. “Yes, a bit. It’s this bloody dress.” she sighed. “And I don’t think you can just whip it off to cool down.” She laughed. “No, as much as I’d love to.”

“So... where will you go after Nottingham? I assume you want to travel.” she asked. Chris stopped and thought about it. He’d never been further than Manchester. Travelling was a dream, but it was out of reach when he was as poor as he was. But he still dreamed of it.

“I think... well to start, in Europe... I’d love to go to Italy. France. Germany. Austria. The Balkans. Russia.”  
“All of it?””Yes, basically! Europe looks brilliant. All the different cultures, languages and landscapes. You’d be mad not to want to explore all of it.”  
“Oh definitely! I’d love to see Ireland... perhaps you could escort me on a tour some day.”

Chris went quiet. “Belfast” was code for home. 1977. A place he didn’t like to think about too often now that he was here. 

“What is it?” Jayne asked gently. Chris sighed and looked her dead in the eye. “Home isn’t home for me anymore... my relationship with it is... well, not great.”

He looked up, expecting her to be disinterested or just not wanting to hear. But she was looking him in the eyes, nodding, like she was encouraging him to continue. 

“My dad wanted me to go down the mines. But I just didn’t want to. I wanted to make my own way in the world. I just wanted to skate. So I left school and tried to join the police to support my skating. But I failed the exams. And my dad wasn’t at all impressed with my skating. So... we had a massive row one day and I left.”

“And what about your mother? Did she support you?” Jayne said. Her tone was soft and her fingers edged closer across the floor to his for support. 

“Mum left us when I was six.”  
“Oh. Chris I’m sorry.”   
“Thank you. I don’t know why she left. But she just disappeared one day.”  
“Do you miss her?”

He nodded. She slid her fingers into his and held them, squeezing it.

“But yeah. That has left a big gap.”  
He went quiet, but she whispered as quietly as possible “Go on, if you want.” Her eyes were deep and honest, and he could tell she was genuinely listening to him.   
“I think I felt too much for Dad. He’s a typical man. You know, kids are to be seen and not heard. And he wanted me to be a typical boy. To basically not feel anything. And I didn’t know where else to go. I had to get out...”

Here he was, pouring his heart out like he’d never done before, to this amazing woman. And for once in his life, he wasn’t scared about doing it. 

“Trying to join the police was petty rebellion, and it didn’t work out, but it still ruined our relationship. So I went into the world trying to find something to make me feel... I don’t know... wanted I think.”

He felt himself tearing up.

“And it hasn’t worked and I’m so... I’m so lonely. I have people around me, but I don’t let them in. Anyone I’ve ever let in has either left or hurt me. I’m scared to let someone in. But I’m so lonely!”

Seeing his tears, Jayne immediately pulled her handkerchief out and gently began to dab his face. “Chris, my poor thing, it’s alright. Come here.” she said, drying his face and holding his face in her hands. “I’m so sorry... really...” 

He laughed slightly and sniffed. “Thank you. You’re the first person to not call me crazy.”  
“You’re anything but crazy. I feel those things every single day of my life.” she whispered. “Really?” he asked. 

She nodded and sat back, but continued to hold both of his hands in her lap. “My home wasn’t exactly easy either. Being an aristocrat’s son is the jackpot. Inheritance. Freedom. No shame. The world at your fingertips. Being a daughter on the other hand...”

She took a deep breath and swallowed, looking him in the eyes. He squeezed her hands. 

“Daughters are toy dolls in aristocratic circles. We’re cattle. Born, raised and sold. And I have to be perfect. Beautiful, intelligent, talented, healthy and obedient. I’m definitely not obedient in my soul. I’m my parents pride and joy - when I keep my mouth shut.”

She looked at him, hesitating, but she let out breath and continued.

“I was raised by a governess to be all those things. My mother and father just wanted me to turn out perfect in the end, and it didn’t matter how she did it...”

She choked at that, and her words registered with Chris. His whole body flared up with rage at the thought of it, but he swallowed it and moved closer to her, holding her hands tightly. 

“And when I cried about it, my mother and father said “what is it but discipline?”. So I just had to bear it. I swallowed every feeling I’ve ever felt since then. I skate to feel too. To channel all those feelings somewhere. But I’m scared. I’m going to be married soon, to who I don’t know. But what if I’m not what he wants? I’m not a doll under all this, I know I’m not. I don’t want to get hurt again.”

She was crying, and he quickly grabbed her handkerchief, but not before pulling her into a hug. They just sat there, she sniffling quietly and he relaxing into her. There was no feeling of awkwardness, it felt perfectly natural to both of them. Here was someone else who understood and listened. 

Jayne sat up after a few minutes and ran her hand down the side of Chris’ face. “Thank you.” she said, smiling gently. He returned the gentle smile. “No thank you. It’s nice... nice just to talk.” he said. “It is. And to have a cry.” she laughed. “That too.” he smiled. 

They sat there, in a comfortable silence, holding hands, chatting and going through more records. The conversation they just had brought them closer, and they moved with even more ease around each other as they spent the rest of the afternoon in the records room of the library.

***

Her show that evening was another roaring success. She managed to sneak him into the tunnel and he watched from beside the seats. She performed with an even bigger smile on her face, and occasionally their eyes met as she was out onto the ice. He enjoyed it a million times more too, probably cheering louder than anyone in the entire rink. Richard had a few cross words with her for sneaking off to the library, but she was too busy fitting herself into bejewelled costumes and tons of makeup to listen. 

In the carriage on the way back to the hotel after the show, both Charlotte and Richard sat across from Jayne, watching her carefully. She was looking out the window at the stars, a constant small grin fixed on her face, her pupils wide and sparkling. 

In his hotel room, Chris got undressed and fell into bed, with a stupid look on his face. His chest was full and warm, his mouth fixed into a permanent smile.

Despite her heavy dress, Jayne seemed to float across her own room, feeling a thousand times lighter.

They both fell asleep, safe in the knowledge that tomorrow was another day in each other’s company. 

***

“Where are you taking me? Should I be scared?”“Yes.”  
“Brilliant. I don’t think I’ve been in this part of town before.”   
“Not surprising Princess.”  
“For the tenth time I’m not a Princess.”  
“I know.”  
The clock in a nearby church struck nine o’clock. Nottingham was fading in a starry summer night, and wandering down a small side-street, on the complete opposite side of town to the hotel, was Jayne and Chris. They had spent the day together, as Jayne once again managed to get away from Richard. They spent most of the day in the park, chatting and smoking, discussing everything and anything. Jayne chose their restaurant for dinner, and they spent more than three hours there, talking and talking. It seemed they would never run out of things to say to one another. 

Chris knew exactly where he was going. There was a pub he loved back in 1977, and he remembered it had “Est. 1902” on the door. So it was definitely a safe bet. It wasn’t a high end pub, but he thought Jayne would love it. 

She was traipsing along beside him, still in her afternoon wear, this time a much more breathable lilac dress, with beautiful gold leaf vines for a waistband. Her hair had survived the day, still in a braid filled with violet flowers. Her gold jewellery perfectly complimented it, and Chris couldn’t take his eyes off her - she looked radiant. 

“I’m going to say much because I know I’ll sounds like a posh idiot, but this is definitely a side of town my parents kept me away from as a girl.” she said. “Ah but its those parts that are always the most fun!” he grinned. “I’m most definitely scared now.” she decided. He laughed, looking at his little Edwardian beauty pulling her skirts up off the ground to avoid them getting dirty. “What a Princess...” he sang.

For that he got a punch in the arm.

He led her down a small alleyway and into a small square, packed with people, far more shabbily dressed than her. A pool of guilt filled her stomach, and she kept her head down, holding onto Chris’ sleeve. 

“Here we are!” he said. She looked up, and saw that they were standing outside a noisy pub called “The Golden Fox”. She looked at him and he grinned.

“...It’s a pub.”  
“You’re brilliant aren’t you?”  
“Why are we at a pub?”   
“To do what people do in pubs. Although I do believe this is a tavern not a pub.”

He took her hand and in they went. When they opened the door, they were overwhelmed by the smell of tobacco and beer. There was a band playing in the corner and people were dancing. The place was so full, they initially didn’t notice that Jayne had walked in. 

But then they did. 

People gasped, pointed, whispered and stared. Everyone turned to look at her, and she went scarlet. She didn’t know what to do, so she curtsied. Chris had to choke back a laugh, but he kept a supportive hand on her waist. 

But one by one, people approached her, shaking her hand, talking to her about how they loved her skating and the women began to fawn over her dress and how beautiful she was in person. At first she was shy and stiff, but she became more relaxed and friendly, and she seemed to glow. 

Chris wandered away from her, but kept a close eye on her, and went to the bar. He eventually managed to get back to her, and she was sitting at a table with a few women, a little girl on her lap. He sat down beside her, carrying two pints - one of cider and one of beer. “Oy now who’s this?” one of the women asked, and Jayne laughed. “This is my dear friend Christopher Dean!” 

“Are you a Prince?” another of the woman asked. Jayne elbowed him and smirked while he laughed. “No no definitely not. I’m a skater too. I’m an assistant to Miss Torvill here.” he replied. Jayne rolled her eyes at that and continued to chat to the little girl. “I got you a drink. Try both and see which you prefer.” he said to her, and she picked up the pint of beer. She took a dainty sip and her face immediately scrunched up. “Oh bloody hell no, give me the other one.” He handed her the cider, which she instantly preferred. 

They chatted away to anyone that sat with them, and soon enough someone had bought them their second round. Jayne pulled her cigarettes and matches out of the inside of her dress and soon enough they were both smoking and enjoying their pints together, laughing and joking with each other or anyone they chatted to. 

About an hour later, they were sharing a seat as they had a large group of people at their table, and Jayne’s free hand was resting on Chris’ knee. She was on her fourth cigarette and third pint, when she began to eye the dance floor. She knocked back her pint and stubbed out her cigarette. Chris looked at her but she already had picked up his pint, lifted it to his mouth and was forcing him to finish it. He laughed and willingly finished it, before taking her hand as she led him to the dance floor. The people were dancing riotously, with loud folk music and what appeared to be a mix between a waltz and a jive. 

“I have no idea what I’m doing, do you?” he asked. “Not in the slightest.” she laughed, but they got into hold, and began. 

They copied the people around them, and picked up what they were doing quite quickly. It was loud and fast, and soon enough they were whirling around, both laughing their heads off. They were handed another round as the song changed, and they knocked back half of them before they got back to dancing.

As they basically thumped around the dance floor together, Chris only had eyes for her. Her hair had fallen out of its plait completely and her cheeks were rosy and bright. She was smiling, laughing and constantly making eyes with him. He himself... well, this was turning out to be the happiest night of his life. They continued to dance every dance, stopping in between for a cigarette and a sip of their pints. They whipped around the dance floor for hours, clutching each other, talking, singing and laughing. As the clock neared eleven and the tavern began to fill with more people, Chris spun Jayne around three times and she caught hold of his necktie, undoing it and throwing it around his head. She pulled his head gently to hers and they danced away, their foreheads pressed together, smiling and smiling. They both could have stayed there forever.

***

At one in the morning, they stumbled out the door of the pub, laughing about something trivial. Chris caught hold of Jayne’s hand and pulled her to him, taking her face in his hands. “I might sound drunk, but I swear to you you’re perfect. Broken, together, tears or laughter - to me you’re absolutely perfect.”

She laughed and wrapped her arms around his waist, glowing from his words. “You do sound drunk.” she giggled, pressing her nose to his. “You however... you Chris are the most brilliant person I’ve ever met... I’ve seen the real you and I can’t look away.”

Stood there on the street, holding each other, they hardly noticed the square full of people. Their embrace was interrupted when someone whistled at them, and they burst into gales of laughter before heading towards the street. 

On the footpath, Jayne used the ribbon from her hair to hail a carriage and they clambered in as she gave the driver their destination. She shut the door and sat down across from Chris. 

He could hardly describe what he felt. It was magnetic. He couldn’t tear himself away from her. She was everything in that moment in time, and she looked at him like she felt the same thing about him. He wondered... maybe, just maybe, this was what love felt like. 

“Are we going back to the hotel? I think Richard will be going mad.” he asked. “No certainly not. I’m in no mood for bed. I have a few more hours left in me, what do you think?” she said, as she sorted through her tangled hair. “Oh definitely.” he grinned. 

“Where are we going?”  
“... Promise you won’t laugh at me.”  
“I won’t.”  
“Promise?”  
“I won’t!””Sherwood.”  
“ ... “  
“You’re LAUGHING!””I’m not!!”  
She whacked him with her ribbon. “I always used to go there as a girl, and it’s beautiful at night.” she said. “Well then it sounds perfect.” he said, smiling at her in the dark. 

“Oh don’t be so sickly sweet.”  
“What? What did I say?”  
“I’m going to push you into the nearest river when we get there.”  
“Charming, Princess.”

***

She was right. The forest was beautiful. The night air was warm and the sounds of nature were a comfort as they strolled arm in arm through the tall trees. 

“So, the hat thing yesterday wasn’t anything to do with the sun?”  
“No. I had to hide my face in public, because I was with a man, without a chaperone.”  
“And that’s bad why?”  
“If a woman is seen with a man without a chaperone and she’s not married, gossip spreads like wildfire and next thing you know your reputation is gone. People automatically will assume the worst.”  
“Bloody hell, thats shit!”  
“It is. Shit indeed.”

“Why is your reputation so important then? Is your personality not enough?” he asked. “No, apparently not. Men will only marry women with a clean reputation. I suppose they don’t want used, or dirty, goods. That’s what we are, a good to be sold.” Jayne explained. Chris sighed angrily. “That’s not how they do it where I’m from.” “Really??” “No. Love comes first. And a woman isn’t a good or property. She’s a person. People fall in love over and over with different people before they even consider getting married.” “Bloody hell, that sounds beautiful.” 

“And what about... the other thing?” she asked. He looked at her. She just looked back. “Do you know what I mean?”

“Oh that! Well, no one is too bothered about that. Some of the older generation are, but generally people will... you know, do it with whoever they fall in love with.”  
“Wow... imagine that. Love. With whoever you want.”

Jayne took his hand and led him down a small path into a few bushes, and they emerged at the edge of a small lake. “Wow. You were right. It is beautiful.” he said. The moon cast a silver light across the lake, and the summer breeze was ever-so gentle. “It really is. It’s practically heaven.” she replied, leaning her head on his shoulder. 

He looked at her and slipped his fingers into her hair. She turned to face him, and ran her finger down his jaw. He let out a shaky breath, and she began to shake gently too. He lifted his quivering hands up to cup her face in them and his eyes went blurry, only focusing in on the pink lips that had enraptured him since he first saw her portrait. She put her hands on his hips and they edged their shaking lips closer together. 

Then they kissed. 

Both were unsure at first, as they just pressed their lips together, not knowing what to do next. Chris turned his head slightly, and she copied. She focused in on his top lip then, kissing it softly, and he kissed her bottom, and slowly, messily but surely, they found a rhythm, neither wanting to pull away. They kissed softly and innocently for about a minute, with Chris pulling her in closer and Jayne wrapping her arms around him more tightly. 

He was the one to pull back. They were both shaking and flushed, and Jayne stumbled back, grasping her forehead. “Oh my god I’m so sorry!”

“No no no I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to jump to conclusions...”  
“You didn’t, I started it!”  
“No I’m the man here, I need to be more careful for your sake!”  
“But I quite enjoyed it! Please don’t worry!” 

They stood, staring at one another. “You liked it?” he said. “Yes... a lot actually. It was my first kiss.” she giggled shakily. “Mi-mine too.” Chris replied, relieved she wasn’t horrified with him. “No wonder neither of us had a clue how to do it.” she laughed. 

“Well I liked it too. A lot.”  
“Well... should we do it again?”  
“Yes please.”  
Jayne pulled Chris into her, and kissed him. This time, they started slowly, and worked through a rhythm, until they were kissing properly, and she had her arms around his neck, his resting on her hips. 

Chris decided to be brave, and he ran his tongue gently across her bottom lip. She squealed and pulled back. “What is that?” she breathed heavily. “Open your mouth, if you want.” he said quickly, before he went back to kissing her. She opened her mouth slowly, and his tongue met hers. She made a gasping noise, but slid her fingers into his hair, and that was his signal to keep going. She copied, and soon they were kissing deeply, clutching each other and sighing. 

They both loved it. It was unlike anything they’d ever felt before. Warm, wet, sticky and soft. And addicting. When Chris pulled back to take a breath, Jayne continued kissing the side of his mouth and his jaw. “Oh do we have to stop?” she whined. “I guess we want to, we stop.” he said, stroking her hair. “Good.” she smiled, and he kissed her again.

***

They found their own way back to the hotel, and Chris walked Jayne to her room. It was 5 o’clock in the morning, and both were still wide awake. They both seemed to realise on their way up the stairs that Jayne was leaving in the morning, and they would probably never see each other again. They held hands tightly and said nothing on their way to her room. 

Outside her door, Jayne turned to him and he kissed her deeply, pulling her into him. She couldn’t believe it. This couldn’t be happening. Chris didn’t want to believe it. He kissed her like she was his oxygen, pulling on her bottom lip and making her groan tearfully. 

She pulled back and pressed her forehead to his. “Come with me... to London.” she breathed out shakily. He pulled back and looked her in the eyes. “What about Richard? What about... everyone?” he asked. “Well... we still have a routine to finish don’t we?” she said, with a sly wink. The cold hand that had grabbed his heart let go and warmth came back over him. He kissed her and whispered “Yes. I’ll happily go with you.”

She broke into a smile and pulled back, taking his hands in her hands and kissing his knuckles. “My dear choreographic advisor. That’s what we’ll call you.” “Hmm. It’s not too catchy but I like it.” 

They both grinned stupidly at each other and shared one last kiss before she pushed him away. “You’ll have to wait until tomorrow for more.” she teased, opening her door. He rolled his eyes, but smiled. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow at?”  
“Nine. Sharp.”  
“I will most certainly be there.”  
“Goodnight Chris.”  
“Goodnight Princess.”


End file.
